


Bride Song

by GarudaDreamsOfRain



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlolly - Fandom
Genre: Coma, Explicit Sex, F/M, Panic Attacks, Psychological Trauma, Strong Language, memories of childhood abuse, references to intravenous drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 04:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 54,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14205531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarudaDreamsOfRain/pseuds/GarudaDreamsOfRain
Summary: Post TFP. After leaving Sherrinford, Sherlock immediately retracts his declaration of love towards Molly, believing it will keep her safe. When she falls deathly ill, Sherlock struggles with guilt and overwhelming anxiety. Molly may die. Has Sherlock waited too long? Canon compliant.Sherlolly. Domestic Sherlock. Romance, humor, mystery, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, slowish burn, mutual healing, smut.





	1. Chapter 1

Bride Song  
Too late for love, too late for joy,  
Too late, too late!  
You loitered on the road too long,  
You trifled at the gate:  
The enchanted dove upon her branch  
Died without a mate;  
The enchanted princess in her tower  
Slept, died, behind the grate;  
Her heart was starving all this while  
You made it wait.  
—Poem by Christina Rossetti

*****

Chapter One

Sherlock and John climbed into the back seat of the car that was taking them from Musgrave Hall to London. It was over. Eurus was in custody, Lestrade and his team were securing Sherrinford, and John was thankfully alive, rescued and safe. Mycroft, still at Sherrinford, was badly shaken, but he, too, would be okay.

Both men were exhausted, and Sherlock cast a concerned eye towards John, shuddering to think what might have happened if he hadn’t been able to reach Eurus in time. John’s clothes remained a bit damp, so he’d nicked an extra blanket out of the ambulance before settling into the car. The driver had the heater on full blast, but he still shivered.

Sherlock draped his Belstaff over his friend and tucked it in around him, uncharacteristically fussing. “Are you sure? It’s not too late to get you to the hospital if you think you have hypothermia or need…any…whatever.” He rubbed his brow, trying to stay focused, but part of his mind was already starting to shut down. 

John waved him off. “No, I’m okay. I feel warmer than I did. It’ll just take a little while.” He snuggled further into his blankets and Sherlock’s coat. Now that the danger had passed and he was out of that damned well, his adrenaline level was easing. He just wanted to get back to London and Rosie as quickly as possible. 

The drive was a few hours, so they wouldn’t get back to the hotel until about four a.m. Baker Street was still uninhabitable because of Eurus’s bomb, and John’s flat was too small for everyone to kip at, so they had left the baby with Mrs. Hudson in a large suite at the Langham and had hired a nanny to help out. Mycroft was already complaining about the room service bill Mrs. Hudson was gleefully racking up.

“Say something if you change your mind,” Sherlock said. He desperately needed rest, however, he shook off the waves of fatigue washing through him. There was one more thing he needed to do tonight before he could sleep, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He dug out his mobile and began to text.

“I will,” John responded. “Who are you texting?”

“Molly.”

“Ah. That’s good. Nice,” John commented. “That really was something, Sherlock. I was surprised...you felt that way about her. And here I thought you were incapable of human emotion.” He managed a small smile.

“I won’t have her laboring under a misapprehension any longer than necessary,” Sherlock said.

“Right,” John mumbled sleepily, his eyes closing. “Are you going over there now, when we get back, I mean, or wait until morning…hang on…what?”

“I can’t have her continuing to think I meant it…those words…what I said.”

John’s eyes snapped open; he sat up straight, shocked. “Sherlock, I was there. I heard you!”

“I did what I had to, in order to save her life, John.” Sherlock was as firm and impassionate as ever, and John couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not.

“What? Are you joking or crazy? Molly believed you! Hell, I believed you! You can’t do this this to her!”

“It’s better this way,” Sherlock said, evenly, re-reading his text and making some adjustments. “Even if I did feel that way about her, which I don’t, the events of today have only solidified my intent to never get involved with anyone on that level. She would always be a target for my enemies and I would find that untenable. As to Molly Hooper specifically, it would be unkind for me to pretend an affection I don’t feel. Isn’t that what you’re always on me about? Being unkind? I think it’s well known I’m not interested in romantic entanglements.” He pressed send.

“But it’s Molly!” John said, his stomach sinking. He’d grown fond of her since Mary died, and he couldn’t believe the coldness he was witnessing. “She’s been such a help with Rosie, and she’s so kind and gentle. She’s a good person, Sherlock, and she loves you. God knows why, because you’re frankly, at times, a bastard. Don’t do this.”

“Really, John, only ‘at times’? I’m slipping.” Sherlock heaved a sigh and rubbed his cheek, remembering the sting of a certain series of slaps not long ago. “And yes, I’ve been on the receiving end of her…gentle kindness before.”

John narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “It’s completely different and you know it. You deserved that. She doesn’t deserve this.”

Sherlock leaned back, resting his head on the curve of the seat, and closed his eyes. “She’s alive. That’s what’s important. And lots of people don’t deserve what happens to them,” he murmured. John could think of no answer to that. The steady vibration of the tyres on the road soon lulled both men to sleep as the car sped through the night towards London.

When they got to their hotel suite, John immediately went to Rosie, picked her up out of her crib, and took her to bed. He needed her sweet warmth next to him; she was such a comfort, an affirmation of life and a remembrance of his wife that he would always be grateful for. Not accustomed to being awoken at that hour, Rosie fussed for a few minutes, but soon settled down, curling into her father’s familiar warmth and smell. John gently rubbed her back, calming her. Content, she sucked on her thumb, making the little sleepy, burbling sounds John found so soothing. They fell asleep together.

Sherlock took a last glance at the two of them, noticing a shard of envy twisting in his stomach before heading alone into his own room. He kicked off his shoes, stripped off his clothes, fell into bed, and sank into a deep and dreamless sleep.

***

Molly woke up. She felt awful. She’d spent a terrible night, tossing and turning, plagued by feverish, disturbing dreams and an aching neck. Her cat, Toby, had even abandoned the soft warmth of her bed because of her thrashing. She sat up, swung her feet over the edge, and dropped her head into her hands, still not understanding what happened yesterday between her and Sherlock. It was very odd for him to have called like that, and the substance of their conversation had upset her tremendously. She knew she should stop obsessing about it; she’d hashed all this over and over for hours last night, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it…about him. For some reason, she was feeling pressured to get her thoughts sorted.

She hadn’t really believed him when he said he loved her, and yet, there was something in his voice that had rung true. Was it possible? Could he love her? He had seemed rushed, panicked even, and his insistence that she say it had smacked of something…some kind of ulterior motive, perhaps, or even forced? Maybe he had only said it because he had to. Because her condition to say it was that he say it first. _Say it. Say it like you mean it, Sherlock._

But why did he need her to say it? She couldn’t figure that out. Why would he need her to say those words out loud, over the phone, at that moment? He knew it already. Everybody knew it. Sometimes it was embarrassing that everyone knew, but she couldn’t help it. She loved him, body and soul. There was an ease, a rightness to it that appealed to her. Molly Hooper loved Sherlock Holmes. Simple. 

Despite the solidity of her regard, she didn’t know if she could handle it if he was playing around and teasing her. Suppose he hadn’t meant it, or if it had been a dare or a game? That was her fear, she realized, that he thought her affection a joke and was laughing at her. That her kind, open heart might be reduced to a silly, scorned, crush. 

She dismissed that thought. He could be a bastard, but he was changing, slowly showing signs of softness and care. She knew his inner goodness too well to believe he was capable of toying with her like that for a lark. So, she reasoned, there had been a clear purpose behind that phone call, something not of his design.

If he already knew it and there was an unknown agenda, then someone else wanted him to make her say it. Who? She had no idea. Once upon a time, she might have thought it was John, but after getting to know him better since Mary died, she couldn’t believe it of him, either. He was a good and decent man, despite his cranky demeanor and the raw anger that flared out of him at times.

Groaning, Molly stood up, slipped on her robe, and went into the kitchen to get the coffee started. She sat, slumped at the table, feeling blurry and confused. A headache was blooming behind her eyes and spreading around the base of her head. She rubbed her stiff neck, wondering if perhaps she was coming down with something. She felt nauseous and a bit feverish, but marked it down to the events of yesterday and her restless night. She told herself she was just unsettled and upset; she’d feel better with coffee and a shower.

Her thoughts returned to Sherlock as the coffee brewed. That call had just taken her so unawares, and she’d felt vulnerable and defensive. It was something they never spoke about, her feelings for him. It remained unacknowledged, so there it sat between them, the elephant in the room, the fly in the ointment, the grit on the lens. Her longing, his…blankness. Sometimes, it was like looking in a mirror — she couldn’t see him at all. All she could glimpse was her own unrequited desire. 

Occasionally she noticed a tolerant and amused acquiescence within him, like the day they solved cases together. There had been a subtle level of flirting that day which had been so enjoyable. At least, until he saw her engagement ring. If anything else had happened that day between them she wouldn’t have taken him up on it anyway. She honored the promise she’d made to Tom. 

But her engagement was hopeless. Everybody knew that, too. Soon after John and Mary’s wedding, in discarding Tom, she was trying to send Sherlock a signal; she wanted their friendship to change into something more…dear. Was he at long last coming around?

Molly wanted him to mean it. God, she loved him so badly it hurt. From their first moments together in the morgue, she had adored everything about him. First to capture her heart (loins, if she was honest), were his looks. He was undeniably gorgeous. Tall, pale, and lean, with whipcord muscles and a feline grace, he carried a strange beauty in his color-changing eyes, his full, plush lips, the delicate bones of his cheeks, and his messy shock of dark, Byronic curls. Immaculately groomed and wearing simply tailored, expensive silk shirts and suits, he cut a dashing and romantic figure. It was such a waste he wasn’t interested in affairs of the heart.

As the months of their friendship turned into years, her infatuation for his physical assets had changed into admiration for his unique, quick mind, his passion for his work, his sense of justice, and his commitment to goodness. Yes, he was arrogant, posh and pompous, and she was aware, now, that in the beginning he had used her mainly for access to body parts and Bart’s lab. But she had long ago grown comfortable with the fact that she couldn’t say no to him when he smiled at her and turned those charismatic, sparkling eyes in her direction. Sometimes it was even amusing to see him struggling to create just the right compliment to affect her compliance.

But something had changed between them that Christmas. That terrible party that he’d invited her to. He’d insulted her in front of everyone, but then he’d apologized. And kissed her cheek. Things were different after that. He was softer around her, more gentle. It was almost as if he cared about her in his own peculiar way as he barreled around London, hurling insults and deductions on friends and criminals alike. She wasn’t included in his nasty insults anymore. He asked for her help with respectful teasing, if not patience or finesse.

Once she began to see the human part of the self-declared sociopath, underneath the scornful bluster and social awkwardness, she found a deeply caring man. She saw, perhaps as no one else did, that he’d been hurt in the past, and badly. Something had taught him that demonstrable affection was not only unneeded, but also to be avoided. She saw clearly how he’d locked his true feelings away and adopted an imperious persona. Molly wasn’t privy to the reason, but in some ways that didn’t matter. Everyone had a story, everyone bumped up against and was transformed by personal demons and worldly experience. It was the authentic person under the story that primarily interested her, with its nascent possibilities for growth and kindness. And authentic Sherlock was magnificent.

He was fiercely loyal to his friends, loved them deeply (although he’d rather eat fire than admit it), and had a huge and generous heart. He was a good person, not a freak or machine. When she located the tender qualities beneath the arrogant miasma he surrounded himself with, that’s when she really fell in love with him, and that love had only deepened over the years.

Her regard had been sorely tested when he used, especially recently over the whole Culverton Smith affair, and sometimes Molly thought she might kill him herself if he didn’t stop acting like an arse, but her love had never wavered. She was as steadfastly for him as he was steadfastly neutral towards her. 

In the dark of night, alone in her bed, she searched their interactions for any sign of romantic affection from him. Sometimes she found something, a little nugget of possibility that she would then ruminate over for days or weeks, trying to breathe into it a spark of life. These tiny hopes were unfortunately fated to fade, eventually drifting into the numbing grace of the emotional void where abandoned hopes go to die.

Molly was strong in many ways, but she was also delicate. She’d been hurt before; her heart had plenty of scars, and sometimes she wondered if she could stand another. Some days she felt stretched so thin, like a wire at its breaking point, useless and brittle. She was nearing that place again, she realized, in the cycle of her love for him, and now she needed him to mean what he had said, lest that taut wire snap. So, once more she polished her eager expectancy with the raw shreds of her heart.

God, how she wanted his declaration to be true! She was good at waiting, patient and understanding. But sometimes it was difficult and she broke under her need for him. She wanted him to love her with his whole being, as she did him. Molly rested a tiny flame of hope on the tone of his voice over the phone, and the second time he’d said it. He sounded like he’d meant it. What if it were true? What if she was worrying over nothing and any moment he would come crashing into her flat, sweep her into his arms, kiss her and say it for real, in person. _I love you…I love you…_ Her heart began to soar. To have him want her as much as she did him! What joy!

She closed her eyes and smiled, drifting in thought, imagining them together, married, perhaps, maybe even with children of their own. Loving and being loved, holding each other close at night, sharing hopes and dreams, sorrows and cares. Melding together hearts, bodies, and minds, becoming one in their need for each other, sharing everything this precious jewel of human life can offer. 

It’s all she wanted, no, all she needed. She required him as much as she did air, or water, or even her own blood, rushing in her veins. He had become an indivisible part of herself. She wrapped her arms around herself, wishing they were his, wanting to hear his deep voice rumbling in her ear, wanting to touch him, taste his lips, have his lovely scent fill her up, and abandon herself to the sanctuary of his heart.

Rubbing her aching neck, and realizing that she was going to be late for work if she kept daydreaming, she shook her head and got up to pour a cup of coffee. She felt dizzy, so she gripped the edge of the counter to steady herself. Standing there, she picked up her phone and began to swipe through her missed texts. There was one from him.

_I didn’t mean it. I don’t love you. It was for a case. Please understand. SH_

It was a punch to her gut. With an anguished cry, Molly felt her knees give way. A dark fog eclipsed her vision, and she collapsed on the floor, unconscious.

*****


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The jangling of the bedside phone woke Sherlock up. He glanced at the clock. Eight a.m. Picking up the receiver, he growled, “This had better be good.”

“Sherlock? It’s Greg. Listen, I know you haven’t had much sleep, but you weren’t answering your mobile and I thought you would want to know. Molly’s been taken to hospital.”

“What?”

“Hospital!”

Sherlock sat up in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“We don’t know yet. ‘Bout an hour ago two of Mycroft’s men let themselves into her flat. To remove the cameras, yeah? They found her on the floor and called an ambulance, and—”

“Is she okay?” Sherlock interrupted. “Where is she now?”

“Well, she’s still unconscious. They told me she was burning up with fever.”

“WHERE IS SHE?” 

“She’s at the Royal Brompton.”

Sherlock hung up on Lestrade, got dressed, and sprinted out the door. He stole a taxi by elbowing an older man aside and headed for the hospital. His mind was racing. If Molly was injured or had been attacked by some foul minion of his sister, he would never forgive himself. After impatiently struggling through three kilometers in heavy city traffic he threw a £50 note at the driver, jumped out and ran the last two. Arriving at the nurse’s station he breathlessly demanded to know the status of one Dr. Molly Hooper.

The nurse at the desk checked a few screens on her computer, and then turned to him and shrugged. “They don’t know anything yet, sir.”

“Room?” he barked.

“You can’t see her, sir. She’s in isolation.”

“Why?”

“Most likely because they don’t know what’s wrong with her yet. She only got here, um…” she checked her computer again, “…less than two hours ago. They’re doing some tests.”

Sherlock spun around in frustration and threw up his hands. “I need to see her!” he shouted.

“Please, sir, if you could keep your voice down?” She looked at him carefully for a few moments, trying to determine who he was in relation to Dr. Hooper, how upset he was going to get, and whether she needed to call security. He looked a bit ferocious, unshaven and wild-eyed. “If you want to take a seat over there in the lounge, I’ll be sure to let you know when I hear something.” She gave him a friendly smile, trying to calm him down. “My name’s Ginny. Try not to worry. She’s running a fever, and so they put her in isolation until they can diagnose what’s wrong. She might be contagious or something. It’s a safety protocol.”

Sherlock lifted his hands to show his acquiescence, nodded, and went into the lounge to pace. 

This was intolerable, he thought. He was never any good at waiting. God, how he hated hospitals. He’d spent too many hours in them himself, recovering from various broken or sprained limbs, head injuries, drug overdoses, and bullet or knife wounds. He hated being trapped with all that suffering humanity. He hated being weak or stupid enough to be stuck there. He hated that Molly was here and he didn’t know what was wrong with her. He hated feeling helpless. So he paced. He paced like a caged jaguar for twenty agonizing minutes before stepping outside to ring John.

John picked up the bedside phone. “This had better be good,” he mumbled groggily, rubbing his face.

“John, you have to come down to the Royal Brompton immediately. As in now. This very minute.”

“…Sh…Sherlock?” 

“Of course! Who else! John, I need you.”

“Wha…what’s going on?” He got up and peered around the corner. Sherlock’s bed was slept in but empty. “Why aren’t you in the next room? What’s happening? Are you ill? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Because I’m not there, I’m not sick, and I am waking you. It’s not me, it’s Molly. She’s…there’s something wrong. They don’t know why so I need you to come down here and fix it…her…fix her.”

John groaned, but hit the speaker button. “Right. Okay. What do you know?” He grabbed his trousers and put them on, then took them off, removed his pajama bottoms, and started putting them on again.

“She’s unconscious, was when they found her this morning, and she’s got a fever. They won’t let me see her, John.” He sounded desperate.

“That could be any number of things, Sherlock.”

“Yes, which is why I need you. How long will you be?”

“Brompton?”

“Brompton.”

“Umm…forty-five minutes.”

“Thanks, John.” Sherlock hung up, shrugged out of his Belstaff, threw it over a chair, and spent the next forty minutes panic-googling assorted versions of _‘unconscious fevers,’_ before tossing his phone aside in disgust and resuming pacing.

***

John met Sherlock in the lounge. “Okay,” he began. “I’ve talked to her doctor. Sit down, Sherlock, you’ll wear out the carpet.”

Sherlock sat on the edge of a chair and nervously clasped his hands together, pinned between his knees. His face was tight and drawn. 

John appraised his friend. Sherlock’s eyes were wide and his mouth was compressed into a firm line. John noticed he actually looked frightened. No, terrified. He spoke slowly and calmly, knowing Sherlock’s ability to absorb information was most likely compromised. “They brought her in about 7:30 this morning. She was unconscious then and still is. She has a high fever. They’ve ruled out toxic shock, and now they’re taking in her in to draw some spinal fluid.”

Sherlock knuckles turned white from his own grip, and he swallowed. “What does that mean?”

“It means they’re looking for meningitis which is a swelling of the membranes around the brain and spinal column. It could be viral, which is more common, or bacterial, which is rarer and more dangerous. They’ve already started her on fluids and antibiotics.”

“Antibiotics don’t work on viral infections,” Sherlock said, with his usual flatness.

“Right, but in case it’s bacteriological, they’re getting a jump on it. It’s standard treatment. We just have to wait until the test results come back. They’ve already done a CAT scan. Shouldn’t be too long for the spinal tap.”

Sherlock made a noise of frustration, stood up and started pacing again. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked desperately at John, unable to find any words.

“Don’t panic, Sherlock,” John continued. “We don’t know anything yet.”

“When can I see her?”

“If she’s contagious, not for a while. I’m going to get a coffee. You want one?”

Sherlock nodded. “Two—“

“I know. Two sugars. Try to calm down, will you? You’re wound tighter than…something that’s been wound too tight.”

In response, Sherlock growled and started pacing. John sighed as he left in search of the cafeteria.

An hour later Lestrade walked into the lounge with a coffee in his hand. John was curled up on a sofa, his head propped on his fist, dozing. Sherlock was sitting sideways in an armchair, his long legs dangling, his head snapping as he fought to stay awake. He shook himself as it registered Greg was standing there, staring at him. 

“Any news?” Greg asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “None.”

“Do they think it’s serious?” 

“Could be. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I had a little time and I thought I’d just come and check. It’s Molly, after all.”

John roused himself, got up and came over. He sank into a chair and nodded at Lestrade. “Christ,” he complained, rubbing his eyes. “I can’t live on these little cat naps. I don’t know how you do it, Sherlock.”

“Mind over matter, John,” Sherlock answered, crisply.

“Yeah, whatever. I heard you snoring just now.” He checked his watch. “They must know something by now. I’m going to find the doctor.” He got up and wandered out.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock. “How are you holding up?”

“Adequate. No more.”

“I can imagine,” Greg nodded. “After the events of yesterday. Poor Molly! She’s such a brick. Always so kind and helpful. I hope it’s not serious. I’m going over to her place later to pick up Toby and poke around a bit. I don’t think she’ll mind, do you? I’ll just keep him with me until we know more. Cats like salmon, don’t they? Oh, and I talked to Mike Stamford this morning. He’s worried, said he’d stop by when he could spare a moment...” Lestrade continued to prattle on.

“Hmm,” Sherlock grunted, ignoring what Lestrade was saying. He could barely think straight, and he certainly couldn’t be bothered to engage in pointless small talk right now. That’s what stupid people did to soothe their nerves. He wished the other man would just shut up. He needed to concentrate.

“So, do you know if Molly’s seeing anyone?” Lestrade’s question cut into his thoughts.

“What?”

“Seeing anyone. You know. Dating?”

“I see you’ve broken up with your wife. Again.” Sherlock said, pointedly, narrowing his eyes and swiveling in the chair to a normal, feet-on-the-floor position.

“How did you…never mind,” Greg sighed, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, it’s a little difficult when she keeps sleeping with other men.”

“Why do you do it?” Sherlock asked.

“Sorry?”

“Why do you do it? Keep going back to her when it seems that all those roads just lead to heartbreak and suffering. What’s the draw?” He seemed baffled.

A little, secret smile broke out on Greg’s face. “Ah, when it works, it’s so worth it. It’s the best thing on earth, to love someone and be loved in return. The right person can make you feel ten feet tall, and when it’s clicking, it’s just…the best. But you wouldn’t understand, Sherlock. You’re not built like that. You don’t need people like the rest of us.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock rumbled, stung by the offhand remark. “So, you’re going to leave your unstable marriage, which has broken up three times already, and offer yourself to Molly Hooper.” He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes, appraising his would-be rival. That is, if he were interested in Molly in that way. Which he wasn’t. “What makes you such a catch? Why would she want you, with your record? I don’t think so, Grant. You’re not good enough for her.”

“It’s Greg! And it’s not me who cheated, it was my wife.”

“Clearly, you’re lacking some essential qualities that would keep a woman ‘until death do you part.’” Sherlock made air quotes with his fingers. “She wouldn’t be looking outside your marriage if she was satisfied with you. What is it? Work too many hours? Not enough money? Oh, it’s problems in the bedroom, isn’t it?” he deduced. He cast his eyes dismissively up and down Lestrade’s form. He was in a foul mood and didn’t care what he was saying. “Molly’s out of your league, _Greg_. Best search elsewhere. See if you can get your actual wife to actually stick around for more than six months at a time.”

“Stop being a shit, Sherlock,” Lestrade fired back. “What do you know, anyway? You’re not exactly the king of romance. If you think I’m going to take advice for the lovelorn from a virg—“

Just then John walked in. He sat down and looked at the two men, his face grim.

“Well?” Sherlock said, impatiently. “How is she?”

“It’s not good,” John responded. “She’s in a coma. It’s bacterial meningitis.”

“Shit. That’s the bad one, isn’t it?” Greg asked. 

John nodded. “Meningitis is always…serious, but this…this is…really not good. However, they’ve caught it pretty early. The CAT scan showed there’s increased pressure on her brain, and so they’ve got her on antibiotics, fluids, of course, and steroids to reduce the swelling.”

The color drained from Sherlock’s face. He sat, blinking rapidly and unmoving. 

“What happens next?” Greg asked.

“Isolation for two or three days, and then we wait to see…if she wakes up.”

Sherlock turned paler, raised his eyes and looked at John. “What?”

John sighed. “The…fatality rate for this runs about ten, fifteen percent. She’s got a good chance, Sherlock. A really good chance. But…”

“But what?” 

“If…when, I mean. When she wakes up, there…may be problems. Deafness, blindness, motor control…issues. These are all possibilities. But most people fully recover and lead normal lives.” John leaned forward. “They’ve got her on a ventilator. That’s standard because there’s always a concern about keeping enough oxygen flowing to the brain. Right now they’re trying to get her intracranial pressure down to reduce the possibility of…brain damage.”

“Oh, my god,” Sherlock whispered. Two dozen horrible scenarios flashed through his mind, each one worse than the last.

“Now listen carefully, Sherlock,” John said, firmly. “I’m giving you the worst case scenario, just so you know. Her doctors aren’t going to say this, and I’m wondering if I should be telling you this at all, but I know you’ll go digging around for it anyway and then you’ll freak out, so I prefer it if you come to me with your questions, okay?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, feeling queasy, trying to pay attention. His mind had shot into overdrive.

“She’s in good hands. The best. Remember that. This is an excellent hospital. We have to face this one step at a time,” John continued. “Normally doctors prefer to take each stage as it comes. You get through one thing, then deal with the next…thing that arises. She may be in a coma for a few days or weeks. Chances are she’ll have a good prognosis and recover well, although it can take months, if not years...”

Sherlock, pale as death, had started to shake. He got up and ran into the nearest loo, clutching his stomach.

“Jesus,” Lestrade said sadly, shaking his head. He looked as if he might start crying.

*****


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

—Three Days Later—

“Get away from me with that thing, John,” Sherlock hissed. “You’re not injecting me with whatever’s in there.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say you don’t want drugs,” John cajoled. “And these are such nice drugs, too.” He slowly took another step towards Sherlock, who was perched in a fighting stance on the sofa cushions. “Very good nice drugs. They’re not going to make you pass out. I promise. They’ll just make you a little sleepy, a little relaxed. Wouldn’t that be nice, Sherlock? And then you can get some rest. Sleep…soft pillows, cool sheets. Soft. Nice. So comfortable.”

“No!” Sherlock started climbing over the back of the sofa in their hotel suite’s sitting room. “Stop pointing that syringe at me like a knife! I promise I won’t interrupt you with medical questions at four a.m. anymore! I’ll stop googling! You can take my phone! I’ll be as quiet as a mouse!”

“I have to take Rosie and go back to my own flat soon, Sherlock. She has to get back to her little baby schedule and I have to get back to work. I can’t leave you here alone when you’re completely insane. You know that.”

“Hudders…”

“Left about an hour ago. She and Mr. Chatterjee are going to the Cotswolds. You know this. She told you this morning. Remember how she said she wouldn’t spend another night here with a crazy man?”

Sherlock shook his head and looked uncertain. “The nanny…”

“Left yesterday. You scared her to death ranting about murderous bacteria lurking in common places around town. You’re delusional, Sherlock,” John said, quietly, a fake smile plastered on his face, his eyes narrowed, his voice soothing. “You’re really beginning to freak me out. You refuse to eat. You haven’t had more than six hours of sleep in nearly five days. Total. Neither have I. You’re talking and not making any sense. Understand, Sherlock? You’re not making words when you speak. Your brain is impaired.” He kept creeping forward. “You need to sleep. That’s right. Good. Sleep. We both…need…to…sleep.” He made a lunge for Sherlock, who sprang out from between the sofa and the wall and ducked behind an overstuffed armchair. 

“Glorbs! I have to be awake,” Sherlock whispered conspiratorially, peeking out over the top of the chair. “For when Mollzee wakes up.”

“Yes, you do,” John agreed. “And you will be. But she’ll need you when she wakes up, won’t she? And you have to be all rested to help her, don’t you?”

“I’z fine,” Sherlock said, stubbornly. “There’s nothing me with wrong.”

“I’ve heard that before…” John began, trying to sound reasonable, but was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. He breathed a sigh of relief and hit the button to let them in. “Thank god! We’re in here, gentlemen,” he said. Four burly detectives strolled into the room, cracking their knuckles, followed by Lestrade with his camera phone at the ready.

“No!” Sherlock shouted. “This isn’t fair! I don’t bederves this!” He grabbed a heavy glass vase, ready to lob it at the first person who approached him. Lestrade started filming.

“Aw, that’s too bad,” John drawled, sarcastically. “Lots of people don’t deserve what happens to them, do they?” Sherlock looked completely panicked. “Get him, boys,” John said, gesturing towards his crazed friend. Sherlock threw the vase at the closest detective, who easily batted it away with his hand. It landed on the carpet, miraculously unbroken.

In the end, it wasn’t much of a tussle. Moments later they had Sherlock pinned, face down, on the carpet. He struggled, but because there was a large man sitting on each of his limbs, he didn’t get very far. John walked over, pulled Sherlock’s trousers aside, exposing a pale expanse of bum, and jabbed him with the syringe. 

“Ow! Fuck!” Sherlock yelped, wriggling ineffectually. “I’ll fucking get you for this. Shit. I’ll get all of you…” His eyes glazed over and his body started to slump. “Ohhh….damn… John…you said…I…wouldn’t…sthleep…” His eyes rolled back and he was out. Maybe seven seconds had passed.

“I lied,” John said, smugly, standing over his unconscious friend. He turned to Lestrade. “Thanks. He’ll be out for at least 24 hours, thank god, and hopefully he’ll have returned to his version of sanity by the time he regains consciousness.”

“My pleasure,” Greg smiled. “What are you going to do if Molly wakes up before he does? He’ll kill you.”

“I’m only dealing with the next thing. This was the next thing. Okay, boys, on the bed, please.” 

The men picked up Sherlock and tossed him on the bed. There was a brief discussion over whether to use the duvet or not. A tie vote occurred, broken in the affirmative by Lestrade, so Sherlock was carefully positioned on his side and tucked in. They left the bedroom in a single file and marched out of the suite. John slapped a twenty pound note in each man’s hand as they passed. Then he groaned, rubbed his face, and sank down onto the sofa whilst Lestrade returned the knocked-over armchair to an upright position and sat down.

“Thanks again, Greg. I was going to kill him.”

“What are friends for? You know, I’ve seen some bad behavior out of him before, but I’ve never seen him like this. He’s…a mess.”

“Yeah,” John sighed. “He feels guilty.”

“What for? Not about Molly?”

“Of course. He thinks he shocked her into a coma. His understanding of medicine is only surpassed by his knowledge of astronomy,” John muttered, sarcastically. “I told you, right, what happened between them at Sherrinford? That whole I love you thing? And his retraction?” 

Lestrade nodded. “I shouldn’t have told him that we found her phone open to his text. I deleted everything before I gave it back to him, but still, I suppose the damage was done.” He shrugged.

“It’s ridiculous, it’s not his fault,” John continued. “Molly got infected somehow. It happens. It could have been anywhere — some random Typhoid Mary coughs in line at the coffee shop, and there you go, but try getting him to see that. He’s out of his mind over this. He’s been ranting hysterically about it for days.”

Lestrade fell silent for a few moments. “Say, John,” he said. “Do you think Sherlock is…in love with Molly?”

“What? No! He’s told me himself. Any number of times.”

“How do you know he’s not lying?” Lestrade spoke quietly, thoughtfully.

“Why would he lie?”

Lestrade shot John a look. “You’re kidding, right? When doesn’t he lie? Plus, imagine the great, untouchable Holmes, hopelessly in love with a shy bird like Molly? He’d never live it down. You’d think, with his need for drama, she’d have to be Helen of Troy or something. Not cute little Molly.”

John was thinking carefully. Sherlock was an excellent liar and he was certainly capable of phenomenal levels of deceit. “Aw, I don’t know. He denies it constantly.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps the man doth protest too much?”

Something clicked in John’s head. “Oh, my god,” he whispered, leaning forward. “He does deny it constantly! _‘She would always be a target for my enemies and I would find that untenable.’_ That’s what he said, in the car on the way back! Of course! He’s protecting her by denying it. He thinks if he pushes her away she’ll be safe from the lunatics that he gets involved with.” John sat back, stunned. “What a colossal idiot.”

“I hope you’re not including me in that lunatic comment. But I’ve been wondering about it for a while now,” Greg said. “Years ago, Anderson mentioned it, but I didn’t pay much attention. You know how tinfoil hat he got after Sherlock died. And then Sleeping Beauty in there nearly took my head off when I asked him if Molly was available, and now this business.”

“That damned cock,” John huffed. “He lied to me!”

“John,” Greg said, patiently. “He lies to you all the time. He has for years. You know this already.”

John thought some more, arched an eyebrow, and raised his index finger in objection. “But that doesn’t mean he loves her. I’ll give you that he’s protective of her. He always is around women. And now we know why. It’s his sister. He feels guilty that he deleted her, and so he’s been extra protective of all women since. I think the jury’s still out about Molly. Oh, my god, Greg.” John rubbed his hands together. “I can’t wait until he wakes up. I’m going to ask him.”

“You just put him to sleep! And no. I don’t think you should. If I’m right, he’s not only lying to you and Molly and everyone else, he’s lying to himself. There’s something about it that terrifies him. It’s not only for Molly’s protection, it’s for his own. He’s not ready, and he’ll just cock it up if you press him. You know how he is about this kind of stuff. Besides, he’ll only deny it and then where will you be? He’d rather die than admit it, just to prove you wrong. I never saw such a stubborn man.” 

“Is that fair to Molly?” John asked.

“Let’s just wait and see what happens if…when she wakes up. God, I hope she wakes up soon. I miss her. You’ll call me when…there’s a change?” John nodded. Greg sighed, and stood up to go, absentmindedly patting his pockets. He gave John a mischievous wink. “I think I have time to upload this video before the end of the day. See ya.” He waved and started to leave, but stopped and turned. “Hey, where’s my forty?”

“Forty?” John said. “I thought it was twenty.”

“It was. For them.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the door.

John pulled out his wallet, grumbling, and passed two notes to Greg. “Ta,” he said. Lestrade grinned and left.

*****


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Sherlock hesitated outside Molly’s hospital room, trying to brace himself for what he knew was going to be a painful experience. She was allowed visitors now, but she was still…asleep. That’s the way he preferred to think of it. She was just asleep. Not in a coma, perhaps never to wake again. Asleep. He drew a deep breath, steeling himself, and slowly pushed the door open.

The room was darkened, the curtains half drawn, and he could see the bed and hear the various machines that were helping her stay alive. The steady whoosh of the ventilator, the quiet beeping of the heart monitor. He walked closer, pulled up a chair and sat down. Molly looked so small and unreal on the bed, like a wax figure, unmoving, her dark hair covered by a surgery cap. Her eyes were taped shut and the ventilator tube in her mouth made his gorge rise. It was so ugly, so wrong. _God, not Molly_ , he thought. Sherlock swallowed, his stomach twisting. Suddenly, he discovered it was difficult to breathe. This was harder than he thought.

He leaned forward and stroked her arm, gently, afraid he might break her somehow. “Molly? Can you hear me? The nurse said you might be able to hear me. It’s me. It’s Sherlock. I’ve come to ask you to please wake up.” His voice sounded strangely childlike.

The room was oddly quiet, despite the thrumming of the machines, and Sherlock was suddenly filled with a dreadful notion that he was the only person in the room. He blinked, shaking his head to dispel the unwanted thought, and kept telling himself she wasn’t dead, she was just sleeping. _In an unnatural manner that’s incredibly upsetting_. She looked so pale. He felt terrible, wracked with guilt.

He laced his fingers through hers, picking up her hand, and brought it up to his face. Rubbing it across his cheek, he kissed her knuckles gently, closing his eyes. “I don’t want to see you like this,” he said, his voice echoing around the room. “I need my Molly. I...need you to wake up and yell at me for being a bastard. I need you to haul off and slap me for hurting you. I need to see your beautiful brown eyes and hear your voice. Please wake up, Molly. Please.”

There was no response. No little moan or sigh, no movement to indicate she heard him, that she was trying to come back to him. She was blank, empty. The only sign of life was her chest, steadily rising and falling with the ventilator. Sherlock didn’t know what to do or say. He felt numb. He knew it was his fault that she was here, fighting for her life against this awful illness. John had told him, dozens of times, that he wasn’t to blame, but Sherlock knew better.

He’d give anything to be able to take back that text. To rewind time until he was in the car again, returning from Sherrinford. What might have happened if he had just let it alone? Maybe she would still be in hospital, but he knew it wouldn’t be with a broken heart. He had done that. With that text, he’d torn up her heart, stomped on it, and kicked it away. He didn’t deserve to be here at all.

God, he was an absolute shit. He’d done nothing but use her, take advantage of her affection for him, forgetting there was a tender human soul inside of her with cares and needs of its own. He’d spent his life crashing around like the proverbial bull in a china shop, trampling on other people’s feelings, riding roughshod over their needs, doing whatever he wished, manipulating everyone around him for his own selfish purposes, always putting himself and his work above anything else. He was a fraud.

Sherlock moved restlessly in the chair, squirming with discomfort, his breath starting to shorten. It was hard to be honest with himself, to admit how self-centered he was. He’d meant well, trying to help people, solving simple crimes and ghastly murders alike, but now he realized he’d just been indulging his own need for excitement and the glory of winning. Of being right, of high drama and victory over others. And she was paying the price for his blatant disregard, his selfishness. His sweet Molly, his pathologist. Suddenly, he realized he had no right to call her his. He’d manipulated her and thrown away her regard like one of his used syringes. He felt absolutely miserable.

“Molly? I’d like to ask for your…forgiveness. I don’t deserve to be forgiven, but I swear to god, if you’ll just wake up now I’ll do anything…anything…to make sure you’re never lonely or frightened or in need ever again. I’ll make sure the entire world knows how special and amazing you are. You’ve just got to wake up. That’s all. Just open your eyes and wake up. I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of everything. Please. Please, Molly.” His voice cracked, and he laid his head down on the mattress, cradling her hand next to his cheek.

Of course there was no change, no sign of stirring. He didn’t know what he expected might happen. Was she going to wake up just because he wanted her to? What arrogance, that he might waltz in here, ask her to wake up, and she would miraculously, like a princess in a fairy tale, wake from her sleep of death to rejoin him in the world of light? Who was he to command anyone? What a fool he was. 

Sherlock began to glimpse the enormity of his very human powerlessness, and he felt disgusted by his own impotency. He laid his head there, by her side for a long time, his heart aching, berating himself for his enormous stupidity.

Finally, he sat up, wiped his eyes, and began to tell her about what was happening in the world. He told her about Rosie and all the new things she was learning, about how Toby was getting too much fresh salmon at Lestrade’s house, how John had connived to trick him and drug him, (although he confessed he didn’t really remember very much of that day), about Baker Street and his plans for refurbishing it. He told her about his sister and what had happened during their awful hours at Sherrinford, and how he and Mycroft were soon to tell their parents about the daughter they thought dead, so many years ago. He found himself talking about wasted time, and failed opportunities, and he promised that things would be different in the future if only she would wake up.

Sherlock talked and talked, and every word he uttered felt like a dagger in his heart. His misery compelled him to speak, so he kept nervously talking, asking her to open her eyes and return to him, trying in some way to make a feeble atonement for all his misdeeds. After a few hours of talking to her unconscious form he sank into silence, staring dully at her inert body. He felt drained, exhausted, defeated. Finally, he got up to leave.

“It’s like you’re lost out there in a mist,” he told her, putting on his coat, “and I can’t find you. All I can do is stand here and wait for you to find me.” He gripped her hand tightly. “I’ll be here, Molly. I’ll be here for you. I’ll be here tomorrow, okay? I’ll be here, every day, until you wake up. Sleep as long as you need to. I’ll be here.”

He walked back to the hotel in a daze, and changed rooms to something smaller. Everyone was gone, Mrs. Hudson, John, Rosie, Molly. He didn’t need an entire suite anymore; he was alone. He stripped off his clothes, fell into bed and slept.

***

They were making love, Molly and him, in his enormous, soft bed at Baker Street. She trembled in pleasure beneath him, grinding her hips against him as he thrust into her warm, dark centre. Their fingers were interlaced, lips tasting, tongues mingling, bellies rubbing, panting into each other’s mouths. She felt so tight around him, sheathing him perfectly with her raw, slick wetness. He ached for her. He wanted to lose himself in her until they both came in a shuddering shower of white hot sparks.

He kissed his way down her long, delicious throat to her breasts, sucking a firm, pink nipple into his mouth and rolling the sensitive peak between his teeth. She arched into him, her legs wrapped around him, moaning, breathing his name, _Sherlock… Sherlock…_ her hands gripping his arse, urging him into her, harder and harder. He filled her completely; he could never get enough of her.

The heat coiled in his belly began to swell, her body began to tighten. They were almost there. Soon…soon…soon. He pushed and pushed, his yearning threatening to boil over and shatter him, sweeping him into oblivion.

Molly cried out, and he looked on in horror as she fell away from him, sinking, falling into a deep, gaping hole. She fell, screaming, into the swirling blackness beneath him, and all he could do was watch helplessly as she was devoured by the darkness.

Sherlock woke up with a start, covered with a cold sweat, despair twisting within him. He took a few gasping breaths, trying to calm down. It was just a nightmare, he knew that, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that permeated him. His cock was stiff and aching. It was so hard he thought he might burst. 

Groaning, he slipped his hand under the sheet, wrapped his long fingers around himself and began to stroke. He increased his speed and pressure until it was almost painful, thinking of Molly’s eyes, dark with desire, shining at him, Molly’s sweet breasts under his fingertips, Molly’s warm breath on his cheek, Molly’s eager hands and lips on his skin, urging him to completion. He could almost hear her soft whisper, _I love you… I love you…_ He threw his free arm over his eyes, straining towards his climax, his legs splayed, his abdominal muscles clenching, his need for her scorching him.

Sherlock came with a sharp cry, feeling as if his guts were spilling into his hand. His own terrible words echoed repeatedly in his mind, _I don’t love you...I don’t love you_. He moaned and began to sob in the dark room, tears slipping down his cheeks, falling into his ears, soaking his pillow. He’d never felt so empty in his life.

*****


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

A week passed. Sherlock tried to keep himself busy. He went to Baker Street and worked on getting it cleaned up from the bomb. John joined him a couple of times. So much was ruined, but he was able to salvage a few things. He thought he might be able to move back within the month. He started arranging for carpenters and professional cleaning crews.

He met with Mycroft and his parents to explain about Eurus, and he took a trip to Sherrinford to try to talk to her. She was just as communicative as Molly, but Sherlock tried anyway. Just because he couldn’t control or manage anything these days didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try. He talked at her, instead, and afterwards, he realized he’d spent most of the time talking about Molly. He found it strange that two vitally important women in his life were both currently not capable of engaging with him, just when he needed them most. He felt like he had only himself to blame.

He visited Molly every afternoon for hours. Her condition hadn’t changed, and Sherlock’s impatience and worry was growing. He hated seeing her like that and felt that she was slipping away from him a little more each day.

The night he’d returned from meeting with his parents Sherlock had some kind of episode. He didn’t know what it was. He woke up the middle of the night struggling to breathe. His heart felt like it was pounding out of his chest, his skin was crawling, and he felt certain he was dying. His mind was racing like a train on a track, chugging _doom…doom…doom_. His lips tingled and turned numb.

Sherlock rushed over to the window, opened it, and started sucking down big gulps of air. Once he started getting light headed he realizing he was hyperventilating, so even though he still felt like he wasn’t getting enough air, he attempted to regulate his breathing. He sat on his bed, forcing his lungs to work at a calm, steady rate. He took his pulse. It was just over 100. Ten minutes later it had dropped to 75, and Sherlock figured whatever this was, it was passing.

He was wrong. It returned on another wave, and then 15 minutes after that, another. Sherlock continued to observe his symptoms, struggling with sanity. He vaguely wondered if he should ring for an ambulance, but then dismissed that thought. If he was going to drop over dead from a heart attack, he would have done it by now. Another part of him craved the sweet blackness of oblivion anyway. He curled up in bed, hugging his pillow, scrunched his eyes shut, and began to count. He got to 104 before it happened again. He started counting over. The next wave came at 152. The room seemed to shoot open into a frightening void, his spine tingled, and it felt like he had fire ants crawling all over him. Something awful was happening. There was something wrong with his eyes, his ears, his lungs, his heart; his body was spinning out of control, smashing against the thick, concrete air towards obliteration, towards certain death. The waves of terror were unbearable; his mind was bursting.

It took him three long hours to fight his way through the entire attack, after which he fell into a fitful, nervous sleep. The next day he felt like trash, but he got up, went over to Baker Street and worked. Hard. He tried to work off all his nervous energy but there seemed to be no end to this knot in his stomach or the fact that his life had seemingly turned inside out.

Next he visited Molly. Sitting next to her, he took her hand and realized he’d run out of small things to say. There was only so many times he could beg her to wake up. Instead of speaking, he spent the next few hours humming songs to her, his voice low, deep, and soft, interspersed with half-remembered snatches of poetry. For a long time he just stared, lost in despairing thoughts.

The next day he brought his violin, the beautiful Stradivarius his sister had given him before her little games had torn his world apart. He played quiet, soothing music for Molly. Beautiful Chopin, calming Beethoven, a little light Mozart. Things to make her feel warm and cared for. Things to let her know he missed her. He played for hours; he played until he cut his fingers on the strings. He’d have cut out his own heart if it would make her wake up. Nothing helped. For the first time, he began to allow the possibility that she might never wake up. The thought terrified him.

He put the violin away, tucked it behind Molly’s bed, and went off to grab a cup of coffee. Going into the lounge, he left again as soon as he saw it was filled with people. He needed to be alone. Wandering the corridors, he came upon a little room marked _Chapel_. Opening the door, he peeked in. A half dozen short wooden pews were set up, a couple of pieces of stained glass perched on narrow shelves along the wall, glowing from behind with light bulbs. A non-denominational altar was at the front of the room, covered with a white cloth, some flowers, borrowed, no doubt from a patient who had just died, and a fat, fake white candle flickering away in the dimly lit room.

The whole thing seemed a bit cheesy. Sherlock didn’t believe in praying and certainly not in a deity, but the room seemed peaceful and warm, there weren’t any people, and it was quiet. He settled down in a pew, his coat beside him, and drank his coffee. Then he laid his head on his arms on the pew in front of him, noticing a painful burning tension in his neck and shoulders, and tried to calm his racing thoughts. He concentrated on slowing his breathing, which seemed to be too fast and skittery these days. He was in that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep when he heard the pew creaking and felt someone sit down beside him.

“I hope you don’t mind if I sit here,” a female voice said.

He shook his head, trying to clear it, sat up, and glanced at the interruption. The woman, about 80 years old, smiled at him. She was short and round, wearing a floral house dress, and carried a homemade wooden cane that had painted flames licking up the sides. The cuffs of her yellow knitted cardigan were a little tatty. Her hair was as white as snow and pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, her plump face was lined with wrinkles, but her cornflower blue eyes were steady and kind. “It’s fine,” he said.

“Sometimes I find it helps to sit next to another person. It’s comforting, yes?” 

Sherlock nodded. Sure. Whatever.

“Who are you here for?” She had a Hungarian accent.

“My…a friend,” he answered. “She’s…asleep right now. Well, she’s in a coma. Has been for 13 days. You?”

“My husband. Stroke.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, morphing into polite mode. “That must be very difficult. How long have you been married?”

A smile broke out on her weathered face. “Seven wonderful years,” she said.

Sherlock shook his head. He was positive she was going to say 50 or 60 years. “Pardon?”

She chuckled. “I see what you are thinking. In my mind, we’ve been married for decades, but I only became a bride seven years ago. We grew up in Budapest. I came to England during the Revolution in ’56. Things were very bad during that time. There was not enough food, and the Russians were killing my people in the streets. So my family sent me here, to live with my cousin. Joska, that’s my husband, he came here seven years ago to find me when they finally let him out of jail. My name is Elizabetha.”

“Sherlock,” he said, extending his hand. She shook it with a remarkably firm grip.

“It was very sad,” she continued, “I had to wait 50 years to become a bride. And now he may leave me. Well, we are old. This is what happens when you grow old.” She shrugged and wiped her eyes.

“If you were in love all those years ago, why didn’t you get married then?”

“Ah. Yes. This is the center, the question of our lives. He made me wait. He was taken up by his work and had no time for me. He was busy with the resistance. It was dangerous, running messages into Russia. He didn’t want me to be…hurt from it. I think he was just…afraid.”

“You waited for him for 50 years?”

“Of course! He was for me. I was for him. What can you do?” She smiled, wistfully. “But now we are happy. I only wish we can be together…more. He is a very clever and stubborn man. Maybe he will trick death and stay with me. I would like that.” She fell silent, thinking for a few minutes, before looking at him with a critical eye. “And you? Your friend? Is she for you?”

Sherlock wondered how to answer that question. “Umm, I’m not sure. It’s complicated,” he hedged with a sigh.

She shook a finger at him. “It is never complicated. If you are for each other, you know. I can tell you. Give me your hand.”

Amused, Sherlock extended his hand, palm up. She took it, peered at it, rubbed it, manipulated it, looking at the various lines and muttering to herself in Hungarian. Finally she pushed it back at him, nodding.

“She is for you. It is very clear. But you, you are like my Joska. You are making her wait.” She shook her head. “The bride is ready, but you are not. It is not good. She must be very sad.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. Her words were hitting too close to home. “Well,” he said, making a move to pick up his coat. “I should probably go check on her.”

“No,” she said, firmly. “Now, you wait and hear me. You are a stubborn man, yes?” Sherlock shrugged, but then nodded. He had to admit it because it was true. “You must not make her wait. Do you want to see her like old Elizabetha, grasping at crumbs? I was unhappy for many years. I was angry at my Joska for being afraid in his heart. I wanted to be with him, even if there were dangers. Do you see? You must never make the bride wait.”

“But…” Sherlock began, and then trailed off.

“Yes? You tell me, now. Why do men make us wait?”

“Because we don’t want you to be hurt.”

“You are a man,” she said, dismissively. “What do you know of waiting? It hurts more to be left apart from your intended. You could cut off all my limbs and it would not hurt as much as when I thought he did not love me. The mind, she plays bad tricks. Sometimes we wonder why, if he is for us, he puts his… _szakma_ …his profession, ahead of his heart. Then we think maybe he is not for us, and that makes the pain come. My heart, it starved worse than my belly.”

“Wait, you’re saying that even if you’d been blown to pieces in the war, that would be better than having a life without him?” Sherlock shook his head. “That can’t be right.”

“Men are like arrows,” she said, irritated. “They have to always be doing, and they only sometimes hit their mark. They are in their action, yes? Whilst women are in their hearts. _Betartja_ , yes? It means…abide. It is difficult,” she nodded, knowingly. “The world is in the hands of men, and they are foolish beings. Some women will not wait anymore. They pack their pain away, like men, and live in their deeds. No more for the heart. Now I ask you, where in this world is there room for grace? Through fear, we are crowding it out.”

Sherlock took a couple deep breaths, feeling like the air was too thin. His heart was starting to pound. The room seemed to tilt and spin. Oh, god, he thought. It was happening again. He couldn’t have it happen here. Not now. He had to get away.

Elizabetha peered at him carefully. She patted his hand. “Now I have created in you the _panikroham_. I am sorry. You breathe. It will be fine, after you recognize she is singing for you. Even now she sings. Can you not hear her?”

Sherlock had no idea what she was talking about. If he was a superstitious man, he might have thought she had put a spell on him. He started to shake, clumsily got to his feet, put on his coat like a shield, and nodded at her. “It was…nice to meet you,” he blurted out, running from the room.

“Do not make her wait!” she called after him, but Sherlock was already out the door.

*****


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Sherlock ran, blindly. He ran as if the hounds of Hell were snapping at his heels. He ran until his lungs screamed. He ran out of the hospital, down Brompton Street and across Knightsbridge, finally ending up, winded, in Hyde Park. He collapsed under a tree along the banks of the Serpentine, gasping for breath, his chest heaving. He flopped on his back. It was early evening, deep into February, and a few pale winter stars peeked out between the bare branches of the tree. The air was crisp and cold. Sherlock found something very satisfying about the chill.

It rolled through him in waves. He couldn’t seem to make it stop. The more he thought about it, the worse it got. He thought he might pass out. He sat up and wrapped his arms around himself, trying to squeeze the terror out of his stomach. His heart was hammering loudly against his rib cage. He struggled to breathe. His skin felt like it was being stabbed with sharp pins.

He got up and started pacing, back and forth under the tree, muttering to himself and nervously pulling on his hair. A woman walking home on the path noticed him ranting under the diffused light of a street lamp, and started walking a little faster. Sherlock stopped suddenly. He knew what to do.

***

Sherlock pounded on John’s door and tried the handle. It was open, so he let himself in. John was fixing a cup of tea. He turned, and after one look at Sherlock’s face, paled.

“Oh, god, Sherlock! Is it Molly?” John put down his cup of tea and rushed to Sherlock’s side. He took him by the elbow and steered him towards the settee. Sherlock sat, shaking his head. He shrugged out of his coat, pulled his shirt tails out of his trousers and unbuttoned his cuffs, feeling uncomfortably restricted.

“No,” he managed. “John, please...help me. I’m dying.” He took several deep breaths. “I can’t breathe.”

John sat down beside him and started taking his pulse. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Heart,” Sherlock said, gulping air. “Can’t breathe.”

“Hang on one second,” John said. “I’ll get my bag.” He was back in a moment and started examining his friend, whilst Sherlock pressed his hand against his chest, struggling to breathe. He was pale and trembling. He shut his eyes whilst John listened to his heart and lungs, poked him in a few places, and inspected his forearms for fresh needle marks.

After a few minutes John patted his knee soothingly. “Well,” he began, “your pulse is racing but your heart sounds perfectly normal. You’re hyperventilating. I want you to breathe with me. Sherlock, look at me. Inhale slowly through your nose to the count of four, and exhale through your mouth to the count of six.” He started counting, and was pleased to see Sherlock following along. They breathed together like that for five minutes. 

“That’s good, Sherlock. Keep breathing like that. It will bring down the excess oxygen in your system. Now, what have you been doing?” John asked, checking Sherlock’s pupils.

Sherlock swallowed, feeling like he was drowning. “Nothing. I was…with Molly, and then I talked to this strange old woman in the chapel, and then…it started again, so I came here.”

“Again? Has this happened before?”

“Once. A couple of days ago. What is it, John? Is it my heart?”

“No. Your heart is fine,” John said. “Sherlock, you’re having a panic attack.”

“What?”

“A panic attack. Your body is having a reaction to stress. There are a number of theories as to causation, including an imbalance in certain chemicals in the brain, or an over-active amygdala which is that part of the brain that deals with threat. The fight-or-flight response gets out of control. There may be psychological reasons behind it, or you...may be suffering from depression or PTSD.” John stopped talking because Sherlock wasn’t listening to him. He was hunched over, rubbing his temples, making little moaning noises. “How long has it been so far?”

Sherlock checked his watch, tried to make a calculation, and shrugged, frustrated. “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t…think.” He groaned and shook his head. “This is fucking terrifying, John.”

“I know,” John answered. “Believe me, I know. I used to get them. Almost every day. After Kandahar. Welcome to the world of feelings. I’m going to give you some diazepam. It will help calm you down.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’m not dying?”

“Not right now,” John said. “But wait until Molly wakes up. She’s going to kill you.” He dug in his bag, grinning, and pulled out a bottle. He shook out two pills and started to give them to Sherlock, but hesitated. “How close are you to using? If you think this might set you off, let’s get you to hospital instead. Tell me the truth.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t want to use. I just want this to stop.”

“Okay,” John said, passing the pills over. “But you’re kipping here tonight so I can keep an eye on you.” Sherlock nodded and swallowed the dose. John retrieved his cup of tea and gave it to Sherlock before heading into the kitchen to make another. “Drink it. It’ll help,” he called. On his way back to Sherlock’s side, he dimmed the lights. “Mine always made me light sensitive. Everything gets magnified. Cheers,” John said, clinking his cup against Sherlock’s. “Let’s just get you through this and then you’ll be tired and can sleep.”

“John?”

“Yes?”

“The world of feelings sucks.”

John smiled, nodded, and raised his tea in a salute. “It sure can,” he agreed.

It took nearly four hours this time. John ordered some takeaway and made Sherlock eat a little. He kept him afloat with cups of tea. He broke out the dark chocolate McVitie’s he was saving for the weekend. He made him do the breathing exercises when he could hear Sherlock start to gasp. He played soft music. He did what he could to ease his agitation, whilst Sherlock groaned and paced, struggling with the demons in his head. He spoke of disturbing dreams, of sharp, stinging pains in his arms, and he ranted for a long time about a strange woman in the hospital. John couldn’t follow that story very well; Sherlock kept slipping in and out of a Hungarian accent. 

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped, turned on his heel, and looked directly at John. “What if she doesn’t wake up? What if she never wakes up?”

“Sherlock, you can’t worry like this. It’s not healthy.”

“But it’s like I killed her!”

“Listen to me very carefully, you…tall moron. First of all, Molly’s not dead. There’s a very good chance she’ll wake up. She’s strong. The doctors are taking care of her, her body just needs time to recover. And if she doesn’t, you didn’t kill her. This isn’t your fault.”

“It is my fault. Everything is my fault,” Sherlock whined.

“Okay. Different tact. Let’s do this your way. Let’s face the demon. What would it mean to you if Molly died? And yes, I’m aware that’s a nasty question.”

Sherlock threw up his hands and collapsed on the floor in a heap. “It…it’s unspeakable, John. It would leave a monumental hole in my life. I wouldn’t want to…keep on living. I couldn’t take it. Not after Mary…,” he fell silent, looking wretched and despondent.

“That’s a very strong statement about someone who’s just a friend.”

“What? What are you implying? Oh, god, John. No! It’s not... I like her. I’m fond of her. She’s cute and nice. Adorable, actually. And there’s the way she bites on her lower lip when she’s just made one of those horrendous jokes and that wicked little sparkle in her eye shines. She’s strong and tough. Pretty. Okay, she’s attractive. Really attractive. I’d trust her with my life. I did trust her with my life. But I don’t like, like her.”

“Sure you don’t.” John muttered to himself. “Sherlock, all I’m saying is that you’ve got to stop beating yourself up about this.”

“I’ve tried, and I can’t. I’m an arsehole. All I do is hurt people.” He jumped up and started pacing again.

“You are an arsehole, Sherlock. I don’t know many people who would argue with you about that. But, you’re a good man. Look at how many people you’ve helped. You solve murders, locate lost relatives, find missing dogs, return stolen property. Most of the time you don’t even want to be paid. You do it just to make those people happy. You’re the kindest man I know. I can’t believe I’m saying this shit out loud.”

Sherlock paced some more, weighing John’s words, trying to find a halfway decent reason to deny them. 

“You know, this has happened to you before,” John continued. “Remember? In Dartmoor, after you saw the hound. You freaked out in The Cross Keys common room. That was an interesting case, wasn’t it? You helped someone who had made a person into a dog in his mind.” John tapped his lip. “Something about an unresolved childhood trauma. That reminds me of someone else I know. Oh yeah! Sherlock Holmes.” He grinned.

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at John, irritated. “Yes, I get it,” he said. 

John thoughtfully stroked a non-existent beard and adopted a bad German accent. “Ja, now ve see zee origins of zee guilt complex. Once ve clear away zee cobwebs of zee mind unt you reconcile vit your sister, you vill find you are not responzible for Molly’s illness. Unt zen, ve can return your mindt to a state of calm. Ve vill start by analyzink your dreams, ja?”

“Very funny,” Sherlock snarled. He stopped pacing and threw himself onto the settee, heaved a dramatic sigh and took a large swallow of lukewarm tea.

“Sherlock, you care about Molly.”

“Of course I do, John. She’s a friend. I care about all my friends.”

“It’s friends now, is it? Plural? That’s progress.”

“Yes. I have more than one friend. For example, if you were in a coma with a horrible illness, I’d be slightly upset, too.”

“Thanks. That’s nice, but no, I meant, _care_ for her.”

“What is it with this tonight?” Sherlock said. “Everyone assumes…well, I don’t know what they assume. But I keep telling you I don’t think about her like that. Listen to me. I am not in love with Molly Hooper!” He crossed his arms and growled. “Can we not have this exact conversation when I’m in the middle of a panic attack?”

John nodded, amused. “Okay,” he said. “Just checking.” After a few minutes, he noted, “End.”

“What?”

“End of your panic attack. You’re calmer now and your breathing has been normal for half an hour. You got through it.” He stood, pushed a few papers into a stack and picked up the tea cups, getting ready to go to bed. “Are you going to be okay here?”

Sherlock frowned. “No. Give me another diazepam. Please.” 

“No. Wake me if you need anything. Except that.”

Nodding, exhausted, Sherlock stretched out on the settee, clutching the throw pillow, and fell asleep almost immediately. John removed his shoes and covered him with a blanket. He stepped back, smiling fondly at his friend. _Damn, Lestrade was right. Sherlock’s in love with Molly Hooper and he doesn’t know it. What an idiot_.

When John got up the next morning, the settee was empty; Sherlock had left. There was a note, a simple _‘Thanks’_ scrawled in Sherlock’s messy hand on a scrap of Rosie’s “drawing” paper. John checked his doctor’s bag. Sherlock had stolen his bottle of diazepam. Sighing, John picked up his phone and texted him.

_Don’t take more than 5 mgs every 6 hours, you bastard_.

He didn’t know why he bothered. Sherlock had probably already bought more on the street. John went to wake up Rosie.

*****


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Sherlock popped another diazepam as he walked along the Mall. He’d been wandering London for several hours, trying to kill some time, trying to let the energy of the city calm his nerves as it usually did. He had an early lunch date with Mycroft to debrief their meeting with their parents, and to plan a strategy for dealing with—possibly helping—their sister. Then he was going to see Molly. 

But the roar of traffic and the steady parade of people didn’t calm him, it just made him more upset. It was all too much. Too loud, too impersonal, too self absorbed, grinding on endlessly, churning piles of blind humanity hopelessly searching, needing something ineffable they might never locate, might never stumble across in their vapid, pointless, mindless wandering. Sherlock wanted to scream with frustration. He needed to get away from all this.

He cut into St. James’ Park and snagged a bench by the water where it was quieter, watching the swans and ducks begging for food. He was only a few minutes from the Diogenes Club. A young boy, a toddler, chased the birds, giggling and screaming with joy. Sherlock smiled at his carefree antics, desiring that same level of freedom from need and worry. If only Molly would wake up.

He pulled out his phone to check his messages. It was stone dead. He hadn’t been home to charge it, and he didn’t bring the cable. He’d expected to be at the hotel last night. Shaking his head at his absentmindedness, he got up and meandered over to his brother’s club. Mycroft was already there, and ushered him into the small private dining room. 

“Good to see you, little brother.” Mycroft was dressed smartly in his grey pinstripe. That meant a meeting with the PM in the afternoon. His tone held the usual dose of sarcasm, disappointment, and strangled affection. “What’s for lunch, Wilder?” he asked.

“A very fine turbot, sir. Roasted with mushrooms and winter vegetables.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft responded. “Please serve when you are ready. And I think we’ll have the 1996 Boillot white burgundy. That should do nicely.”

They sat down at the linen-covered table dressed with antique Spode china, Royal Brierey crystal, and Chawner flatware. It looked like the tea room at the Savoy, staid and exceedingly British.

“Rather olde English, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked, snapping his napkin open.

“Yes,” Mycroft answered with a pleased smile, admiring the elegant table. “Isn’t tradition sublime?”

Sherlock sighed. “What are you getting at, brother mine?” He started on a slice of freshly baked soda bread, slathering it with butter.

“I’m just wondering if we should, um, break with the past so much, in regard to our sister, that is. Isn’t it better to keep her where she is?”

Sherlock sat back, crossed his arms, and glared at Mycroft. “You think I want to take her out of there.”

“The thought had crossed my mind. You can’t do it, Sherlock. She’s too dangerous.” His voice dropped into the warning zone. 

Sherlock knew that tone all too well. It irritated the hell out of him. No one, not even his own blood, told him what to do. But Mycroft had always been intractable. Thinking about what Eurus’s life must have been like for the past 30 years, he was suddenly angry. “How could you do that to her, Mycroft? How?”

“It was remarkably easy,” he replied, casually. “Actually a little terrifying to think what a government can accomplish these days when it really puts its shoulder to the grindstone.”

“She’s our sister! Couldn’t you see how it was affecting her?”

Mycroft had the grace to look ashamed. “Yes, I saw.” He sighed. “Sherlock… Uncle Rudy convinced me, when I was very young, that it was for the best if I continued what he’d begun. You know what he’s like. What other option did we have? She’d already killed someone at the tender age of five. Calmly, deliberately, with malice of forethought. Our parents couldn’t handle her, that was abundantly clear. Her…talents meant high security; her determination meant Sherrinford.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It just seems so bloody unfair.”

“What of it? Look, we both know that out of the two of us, I’m not the one with moral exactitude.” 

Sherlock snorted. “That’s an understatement.”

“When is life fair? Really, brother mine, I thought you understood that.”

“I do. Doesn’t mean I have to like or accept it.”

“Naturally. You were always so idealistic. But certainly you see someone had to…deal with her. It was…difficult, to put it mildly, but she helped us, too. I gave her puzzles to solve, she’d solve them. She’s alerted us to a terrorist attack numerous times. She’s saved hundreds of lives.”

“So, treating her like a performing animal in a cage, in the balance, makes up for the lives saved. Have I got that right?”

Mycroft sighed and hung his head. “I’m…sorry, Sherlock. As you said to mummy the other day, I did the best I could. The outcome wasn’t satisfactory for anyone, including me. I take responsibility for that. It wasn’t…easy.”

He looked so sad for a moment that Sherlock was taken aback. He hadn’t really considered the enormous burden the situation had placed on Mycroft. The man was tasked with keeping his own sister under lock and key and never telling another soul. Horrible. Sherlock considered how this was going to affect the way they interacted. Their default mode with each other was cruel teasing and snide comments. Anything else he barely understood. Well, he mused, another puzzle to unravel. He took a deep breath.

“Any news about Miss Hooper?” Mycroft inquired, cutting into Sherlock’s thoughts.

Sherlock shook his head. “None.” He looked glum. “I’m going there after. I’m beginning to think…” he trailed off, not meeting his brother’s eyes, unwilling to voice that particular thought.

“I’m sure she’ll wake up soon. I know you’re…fond of her,” Mycroft prodded, with a sly smile.

Sherlock heaved a sigh, exasperated. “Not you, too! Have you been talking to John?” 

“No,” Mycroft answered mildly, his eyes wide, the picture of guilelessness. “Not at all. Why would I be contacting Dr. Watson?”

“Wipe that innocent look off your face, brother _dear_.” 

“Temper, Sherlock. I was merely making an observation.”

“How many times do I have to explain…” he growled. “I am not in love with Molly Hooper!”

“My mistake, obviously. One of many, no doubt. Good to know you’re keeping track. But...I had thought differently considering you told her you did.”

“I did that because I had to,” Sherlock snapped. “It doesn’t mean I meant it.”

“It doesn’t mean you didn’t mean it,” Mycroft said, smoothly. Sherlock glared, fratricide in his eye. “Ah! Here we are.” The British Government smiled at the approaching meal.

Wilder served and poured the wine. The fish looked perfect. Just as they picked up their forks, Mycroft’s phone buzzed. He answered it. “Sorry, I have to take this. There’s a certain situation...” He peered at the screen, brought it closer, then held it at arm’s length, before taking a deep breath. His eyes grew wide. “It’s from Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he announced. “Are you sitting down, Sherlock?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Clearly.”

Mycroft turned the screen towards him. It was a picture of Molly Hooper, sitting up in her hospital bed. Her eyes were open. She was awake.

Sherlock jumped up, knocking over his chair, and ran out of the club. 

Humming a self-satisfied tune, Mycroft picked up his phone and texted John and Greg.

_You’re right. He’s in love. After all my guidance he defies me, even in this. The agony!_

Sherlock ran. He knew he could cover the four kilometers faster than he could by taxi. He made it in 23 minutes, his lungs bursting. Taking the stairs three at a time up to her floor, he ran down the hall and slid to stop outside her door. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open, suddenly filled with trepidation.

Lestrade was there, sitting next to Molly’s bed and talking to her in a low voice. He turned when he heard the door open. “Sherlock!” He got up, stroked Molly’s arm and whispered something to her, and came over to Sherlock’s side. There was a huge smile on his face. “Isn’t this great? She’s awake and you got my message!”

Sherlock looked at Molly. She was sitting up, staring. Not seeing, just staring. “What’s happening with her, Greg? Is she okay?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve talked to her doctor. Apparently the nurse found her earlier trying to pull out that tube in her arm. I guess they can do that when they’re waking up,” Lestrade explained. “So, um, the doctor said she’s now in what they call a minimally conscious state. It’s like her brain is reloading all her programs. She may or may not track you or respond. She can’t talk yet, even though they’ve removed the ventilator thing. Once she…gets a little farther along, they’ll be able to begin determining the extent of any brain damage. Although they’re already concerned about her left arm. It’s got a tremor and see, she’s holding it funny. It’s too early to know anything definite, though.”

“Okay.” Sherlock said, trying to calm down. “What else should I know?”

“The nurse’s station has a list of articles you might want to read. It’ll help with understanding her recovery.” Sherlock nodded, continuing to look at Molly and slowly moving in her direction. “I’ll just say goodbye, then, and leave you two alone,” Greg muttered, going to Molly’s side and speaking to her in a low voice. Then he placed a kiss on her lips and left, grinning. Sherlock’s narrowed eyes never left him.

He sat down by her side, took her small hand in his trembling one, looked deep into her warm brown eyes, and smiled at her. “Hello, Molly,” he said, silently thanking a god he didn’t believe in.

On his way out of the hospital Sherlock stopped at the nurse’s station to get the list of articles. On a whim, he asked about Joska. The nurse shook her head sadly. Unable to trick death as his bride had desired, he’d had another stroke and passed away in the night. Already an emotional wreck, Sherlock almost burst into tears right there in front of everyone. 

Poor Elizabetha was waiting again, this time until she could join him. What a tragic waste, Sherlock thought. Fifty, sixty years of yearning for love and connection; decades spent in waiting. Only seven years of joy in such a long life. He sent her an enormous bouquet of white lilies and tried to move on, knowing her story had left a shadow on his heart.

*****


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

—Three Weeks Later—

Molly was slowly coming back to the person Sherlock remembered, although she was tired, didn’t talk much and when she did it was slow and halting. She needed a lot of sleep and was perpetually confused. She kept asking what happened, over and over. Her doctor told him all this was normal. “Her brain is undergoing a massive reorganization,” he said. “When there’s been damage, the brain has to rewire around those lost connections. It takes a great deal of energy for that, so she’ll be tired a lot. Her memory will be spotty, and in these early stages they’re mostly trying to figure out what happened. She’s pretty lucky, though, she’s got a great chance at a full recovery. That takes time. She needs peace and quiet.”

They were concerned about her left arm. It had a definite tremor and accompanying weakness. As soon as Molly was able, they had her in physical therapy, working through a series of rehabilitation exercises. And every day, Sherlock and Molly would take a little walk up and down the hall, she using his arm for support, and each day, with his encouragement, she took a few more wobbly steps than the last.

She hadn’t mentioned the phone call or the text. It seemed she couldn’t remember anything about it at all. Sherlock didn’t bother to remind her, preferring to pretend it never happened. He was ashamed of his own behavior towards her. Maybe she had forgotten completely and they could start from scratch. He hoped so.

“What’s it like, having those holes in your memory?” he asked her.

“They’re just...blanks,” she replied. “Like nothing, like...a cloud is there. When I was...waking up it felt like I was just two......eyeballs in space, not…connected to anything. People...came and went, I knew that, but they didn’t seem to…affect me. It’s…been...weird.” 

One day she glared at him when he walked in the door. He was relieved to see her angry at him; it was something he was familiar with. “You...could have told me you...have a sister,” she complained. “I had to find out from...Greg.”

“I…I forgot. Not that I have a sister, I forgot you didn’t know. What did he tell you?”

“There was...some kind of…prison? She tried to…kill you?”

So Sherlock told her about Eurus, passing it off as lightly as he could, but he didn’t mention the phone call or the coffin he’d destroyed. He omitted that room in Sherrinford entirely. She listened carefully, confused, trying to track what he was saying, trying to absorb the information.

She placed her good hand tenderly on his arm. “You…have an entire…childhood to…remember,” she said, gently. Sherlock nodded, touched. It was like her to think of someone else’s needs, even in her own suffering. There was something extraordinarily sweet and pure about her newness, like the innocence of a child. To him, it was like witnessing a remarkable awakening.

Another week went by. Sherlock had moved back to Baker Street and spent nearly every waking hour with Molly. He was still getting the panic attacks, still taking the diazepam. He’d had four attacks in the last ten days. He got through them as best he could, preferring to save his mental and physical energy for Molly. Some nights, though, the thought of her was all that helped him fight through the waves of terror churning through him as he struggled to breathe.

Sherlock stroked Molly’s hair, gazing out her window as she slept. Rain coated the glass in dreary, foggy drops. Another week and it would be April. Molly was scheduled for discharge on April 2nd. London was currently chilly, gray and rainy. It had been that way for days. Sherlock sighed. As much as he loved London, he was longing for sun and sea. Someplace quiet, someplace different. He’d never been this unsettled and uneasy before, and his mental feathers felt perpetually ruffled. He just wanted to find a calm, restful spot to find his centre again.

Molly stirred and opened her eyes. “Hello,” she said, sleepily, smiling at Sherlock. “You’re always here when I…wake up. I’m not complaining, but don’t you have…murders to solve or something?”

“The murderers have one less detective to chase them these days,” Sherlock replied. “Lestrade will just have to work harder.”

“Ah, Greg,” Molly murmured, stretching, a pleased smile on her face. “He’s so…nice. And cute, too.”

“Really? I thought he was fairly average,” Sherlock scowled.

Molly laughed, turning on her side towards him. “Just because...he visits me regularly too, and shows me pictures of...Toby, lounging around his…flat like the kitty king he is. Oh, I know! You’re jealous! It’s because he…kisses me on the lips.” She nodded knowingly.

“I am not! I couldn’t care less if you think a feeble minded, working class Detective Inspector is cute, or where he puts his lips,” he snarled, rolling his eyes.

“You’re jealous!” she insisted, patting his hand. “Poor Sherlock. I promise that you’ll always be…first. Anyway, why don’t you kiss me on the lips? Chi…chicken?” She grinned.

Sherlock ignored her taunt. “Say, Molly, how would you like to come away with me for a while?”

“Go...away? Where?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking. You’re getting out of here soon, and I thought you might like to get away from London. We could get a cottage by the sea where you could soak up the sun and have a quiet place to recover. Would you like that? For a few months?”

“A few...months? What about Toby? I can’t…leave him with Greg forever. And I miss my…fur baby.”

“We’ll take him with us. Look,” he said, pulling out his phone. “Look at this cottage. I could rent this for us.” He held the phone for her whilst she started scrolling through photos of the most adorable cottage she’d ever seen. It was thatched and covered with climbing June roses, secluded on a small bluff overlooking the channel, with Bournemouth in the distance. There was a small garden on the side, washed with sunshine and lilacs. Inside was small and neat. The tiny village of Hordle nestled in a valley a couple kilometers away. She sighed with longing. Trust him to find the most romantic looking cottage in England.

“It has two bedrooms,” Sherlock added, “so you could have…privacy. It’s small, but it looks perfect to me. To be honest, Molly, I need to get away myself. I’d like…I’d like to do that with you. Things have been…difficult lately.” He seemed almost embarrassed at his own need. Why was it so tough to admit it?

“I know,” she said, quietly. “We’ve both been having a…hard time. Gosh, it would be nice. But what about…my physical therapy?”

“I’ll help you. I can do what they do. Unless...you don’t want to,” he blundered, feeling awkward. “I suppose you could go back to your flat and not come with me. But you see, Molly, I…need this. I don’t want to wait anymore…I don’t want you to wait, I mean.” He shot her a look from under his brows.

“It’s lovely, Sherlock,” Molly breathed, thinking about it. “Oh, do you think…we could?” She looked at the cottage wistfully. “It wouldn’t be…too much to ask? I’m not going to be very…helpful, you know. I get tired so easily and this…” she cradled her useless arm.

“It’s not too much. It’s exactly what I want, exactly what you need. I want…to help you get better. I’ll cook and clean and feed Toby and take care of you. And we’ll grow you a new arm and you’ll get stronger. I heard they have great soil down there.”

Molly laughed lightly. “How can I say…no at a chance to see Sherlock...Holmes cooking and cleaning?”

He smiled in triumph. “I’ll make all the arrangements.” He stood up to leave, hesitating for a moment. Suddenly, he bent, kissed her firmly on the lips, grinned and left. Molly sank back into her pillows with a satisfied sigh, running a finger over her mouth. 

*****


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Sherlock helped Molly out of the hospital into the open air and proudly showed her their vintage Jaguar, packed with suitcases, his violin and microscope, a box filled with odds and ends, and one disgruntled cat in a pet crate. 

She gasped. “Oh my god, where…did you find this beautiful car?” It was a completely ridiculous black and gray four door monster of a car from the 1940s. It looked like one of those cars people rent for weddings. Its enormous curved bumpers swooped over the white wall tyres and joined the running boards, with the engine housed under what looked like a small church vault. The lights mounted on the front grille were bigger than Molly’s head. It was crowned by the classic leaping jaguar hood ornament in flashing chrome. _Trust Sherlock to choose the silliest, most ostentatious, fabulous car available_ , Molly thought, fondly.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” he grinned. “Lord Carven owed me a favor, so I borrowed it from his collection. It’s all ours for the next three months.”

“Pretty big...favor. Did you get him off...a murder charge?” There was a sparkle in her eye.

“Helped him put up some shelves,” Sherlock retorted, matching her grin.

“Where’s my baby? Where’s Toby?”

“Voicing his displeasure at being in a carrier.”

Molly eased herself into the back seat and took the long-haired ragdoll out of his crate. She hugged him, murmuring baby talk as he purred loudly and wiped himself all over her, head butting her in greeting. Sherlock watched thoughtfully as her eyes filled with tears. He swallowed, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat. “Don’t cry, Molly.”

“I’m just so…happy, Sherlock,” she smiled through her tears. “I missed him. Yes! I missed you, Mr. McFussypants,” she said to the cat. She looked out the window at the sky. “I’m glad to be…alive. And to be wearing real clothes!” She looked at him, gratitude shining in her eyes. “And…to be going away with you.”

Sherlock grinned, insufferably pleased with himself. After a sufficient time for reacquaintance, he put Toby back in his crate and gave him some rescue remedy to help him through the long drive ahead. She watched him administer the drops. He was very good with Toby, she decided, firm but gentle. Even if he wasn’t a cat person yet, he was well on his way. Molly settled herself in the front seat, Sherlock buckled her in, and they set off for the southern coast. 

London and the painful recent past faded away as they leisurely drove through the English countryside which was spreading with green, beginning to wake up from its winter sleep. The weather cleared as they traveled south, hints of blue sky and sunshine beckoning them onwards. Molly gazed out the window, relaxed and happy. She saw a sparrow hawk flying overhead, baby lambs joining their mothers in the fields, and horses kicking their heels in their paddocks. They wound through small villages with children playing in the lanes, and saw standing stone circles in the distance. Molly sighed with satisfaction at the sights and sounds of life all around her. They stopped briefly for a sandwich and a pot of tea in a little pub along the way. Molly was starving; she ate all her sandwich and half of his chips.

Nearly three hours later, Sherlock pulled into the driveway of the little cottage. It was every bit as cute as its pictures. Whitewashed, with thick walls—protection against a winter sea—and a sculpted thatched roof. Little shoots of daffodils and tulips were just beginning to emerge here and there, soon to be in bloom. The climbing roses banked against the house were putting out tiny leaves. In a few more months, the area would be a riot of sweet smelling blooms.

The small bluff on which the house sat was about 20 meters above the ocean, and a well beaten path meandered down the side of the cut to the sea, opening onto a white sandy cove about 1000 meters long. At the western end, another low bluff tapered the beach off, and in the other direction, steep chalk cliffs topped with pines crumbled their sides onto the shore, leaving a mass of rocks and debris at their base. The ocean view was wide and deep and the enormous sky was flecked with high, puffy clouds, sailing eastward. The Isle of Wight could be seen in the far distance past the high cliffs, a low, hazy shadow against the lighter coloured sea. The glorious sun, salty air, and unlimited vistas were a welcome gift to their weary senses.

Behind them was the village of Hordle, and between the cottage and the village lay shallow, rolling hills, broken into small meadows defined by stands of beech and hawthorn. Farther away the meadows vanished into thick forests of yew, oak, and chestnut. Along the base of the high bluffs, a narrow, clear stream burbled its way to the shore, winding between spiky tufts of grass and small, rounded boulders. 

On the side of the house off the kitchen stood an iron-fenced garden, the lawn spotted with daisies and flooded with sunshine, edged with tangled ivy, lilacs, and peonies. A large monkey puzzle tree stood sentinel at the edge of the garden near the corner of the cottage. A squeaky aluminum glider and several chaise loungers awaited the tired travelers, and a gas grill was tucked in the corner of the patio.

Molly turned to him, her face shining. “Oh, Sherlock! It’s…perfect. Look how adorable! The daffodils!” Sherlock beamed and helped Molly out of the car, bending to pick her up. She shook her head. “I can do it, Sherlock. It’s not very far.” He offered his arm, and they slowly made their way down the path to the entrance. Half-way there she turned pale and her knees buckled. 

Sherlock swung her into his arms with an exasperated grunt, holding her more tightly than necessary. “Next time, let me help you,” he growled. 

She wrapped her good arm around his neck. “I will. I didn’t realize I…was so tired. I was excited to be here. You’re not going to be one of those…hovering kind of nurses, are you? You know, the ‘have we had our bowel movement today’ types?”

Sherlock unlocked the door, kicked it open, and carried her across the threshold. “Oh my god, I hope not. Smack me if I do.” He placed her gently on the chintz sofa and looked around, nodding. “Yes, this is nice. It has good light. I’m going to unload the car,” he said, handing her a throw. “You rest.”

“Tea first?” she begged.

“Toby and tea, coming right up.”

After a few minutes rest, Molly felt strong enough to look around whilst Sherlock brought Toby inside and bashed around the kitchen, making tea. The cottage had two small bedrooms, flanking either side of the narrow hallway, complete with gorgeous brass beds. The loo, which housed an enormous cast iron bathtub, occupied the end of the hall. Molly was looking forward to using that. The kitchen was minuscule, but there was a stove, a small refrigerator and a few drawers and cupboards packed with dishes, glasses, flatware, and pots and pans. Off the kitchen was a tiny utility room with a washer dryer. 

The best room was the sitting room, situated between the kitchen and entry hall. Light, airy, and spacious, there was a fireplace on the outer wall, flanked by two worn overstuffed chairs, and a sofa along the opposite wall. Tucked into the corner under a picture window looking out over the sea a baby grand piano, miraculously in tune, sat in state. A small dinner table with three Windsor chairs was wedged along the wall, and on either side of the doorway were narrow, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, packed with reading material and various board games. The furnishings throughout were typically English country—horse brasses on the wall, a hodgepodge of antiques, a surfeit of chintz, and a warm, relaxing feel. A vase of fresh flowers graced the coffee table, with a note of greeting from the owners.

After completing her tour of the cottage, Molly found some sheet music in the piano seat, sat down, and started picking out Bach’s Minuet in G with her right hand. Sherlock came out of the kitchen at the sound. “Do you play, Molly? I didn’t know that.”

“Not very well,” she admitted. “Especially now.” She poked her bad arm.

He moved behind her, close enough that she could feel his body heat. He leaned over, reached towards the piano with his left hand and started playing the other half of the piece. “Maybe I can be your other hand,” he whispered in her ear. Molly blushed. They struggled together through an awkward duet, laughing, enjoying their mutual incompetence.

Sherlock went and opened the window, letting in the refreshing sea air, and then brought in the tea and unlatched Toby’s crate. Immediately, the cat crept out, looked around, wide eyed, and started sniffing, inspecting every inch of the cottage before jumping up on the piano and settling down, gazing out the window at the birds chattering to each other in the monkey puzzle tree. As soon as she finished her tea, Molly stretched out on the sofa with a satisfied groan and fell asleep. 

It took a couple hours for Sherlock to put everything away and unpack. He drove to the village and bought groceries, brought them home and put them away. Molly continued to sleep, exhausted by the trip, Toby now curled up snugly behind the crook of her knees.

Sherlock made another pot of tea and sat for a while, watching Molly and hoping that the change would prove beneficial to them both. He felt fiercely protective of her and desperately wanted her to recover fully. He promised himself things were going to be different between them. He just needed to go slowly.

From his chair by the fireplace, he could hear the soothing crashing of the waves against the shore and a few seabirds calling in the distance. He took a deep, relaxing breath of sea air and stretched out, closing his eyes, already feeling his ruffled mental feathers starting to smooth.

***

A short time later, Sherlock was considering carrying Molly to bed so she could rest properly when he heard the crunch of car tyres on the gravel drive. “Molly,” he said. “Wake up. The owners are here.”

Molly blinked and sat, up, groggily. “Wha— where are we?” She looked confused. “Sherlock?”

“It’s okay,” he responded quickly, smiling at her. He was prepared for her confusion and lapses of memory – the doctor had warned him it might happen, especially if she was stressed or tired. “You’re okay. We’re on holiday, in a cottage by the sea.”

“We’re on holiday? Are we married?” She seemed bewildered.

“No. We’re not married, Molly.”

“Then why did you wake me up?”

He chuckled. “We have company. The owners are here,” he said, going to the door and opening it. “Hello,” he called in greeting, determined to be polite.

A couple in their mid-60s came in, smiling broadly. “Hello, hello!” the man bellowed. “We just wanted to stop in and meet you. Welcome you properly.” He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pumped it vigorously. “Name’s George, this is Carol. Brockhurst. I say, splendid Jag you’ve got there! What year is that?”

“1947 Mark IV Saloon,” Sherlock grinned. “She’s a beast.”

The Brockhursts were plump, loud, cheery, and brash and Sherlock could tell instantly they were good-hearted people who had never experienced a moment of real tragedy. She was in floral, he in tweeds. People like them were the spine of English country life, full of boisterous good wishes, ignorant opinions and titillating village gossip. Carol handed him a bottle of white wine as she swept in.

“How lovely you are, my dear!” she gushed, plopping down on the sofa next to Molly. “You’ll just want to pop that in the fridge,” she said to Sherlock, as George settled into what had been Sherlock’s chair. “George and I found this cute little winery last year when we were in New Zealand visiting my cousin Paula. Her husband’s attached to the government there. Something in…oh, what is it, George?”

“Securitization, old girl,” George supplied. 

“Yes, securitization. I keep thinking sheep futures but that’s silly, isn’t it? We met the PM! Adorable man. He told us about this winery, Two Paddocks, owned by that handsome actor, Sam Neill. So of course we had to go, but unfortunately Sam was away working. Anyway, it’s a lovely wine, light and crisp, goes well with fish, but you want to make sure it’s nicely chilled.” She patted Molly’s hand. “Look at you, poor dear,” she murmured. “You must be entirely worn out, driving all the way down here from London, fresh out of hospital. When did you arrive?”

“Erm…um…” Molly said, feeling confused. She wasn’t sure who these people were. Her head was aching.

Sherlock tucked the wine into the fridge and came out. “Just a few hours ago. Thank you for the wine. Very kind of you. Um, would you like some tea?”

“Not for us, thanks,” George said, too loudly, leading Sherlock to deduce he was partly deaf. “We’ll not stay long, old chap. You’ll want to be alone with your missus,” he finished with a broad wink. 

Sherlock settled into the other chair. “We’re not—“ he began. 

“George!” Carol interrupted, wagging her finger at her husband. “I told you before. Not together,” she said, in a stage whisper, leaning towards him conspiratorially, causing Molly to blush. “They’re here so she can get well,” she finished, indiscreetly pointing at Molly.

“Ah, right,” George said. “Forgot. Been in hospital, have you?” He seemed kindly. Molly nodded. “Well, this sea air will pick you right up.”

“This is a…nice cottage,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand, clearly scrabbling for a topic of conversation, keeping an eye on Molly. She looked a little overwhelmed.

Carol made a pleased squeak, sounding like a new mother when her baby is complimented. “Yes, it is lovely, isn’t it? I hope you find everything you need. We just got it two years ago. It belonged to George’s uncle Patrick. I spent many an hour here, reading to him when he got older, and doing…things, you know, just laundry and cooking and…housekeeping. We live in the village. You should stop by if you need anything. Anything at all. Second house on the left past the roundabout, just over the bridge. Or if you have questions about the area. George here is mad about local history.”

“Just a hobby,” George insisted modestly. “But the history around here is fascinating, did you know back in 17—“

“—I should bring you my coronation chicken, it’s so divine, you’ll love it,” Carol interrupted, clucking at Molly. “Put some meat on your bones. You’re just a wee little thing, aren’t you?” She poked Molly in the ribs, measuring her up for fat content like the witch from Hansel and Gretel. “Uncle Patrick loved my coronation chicken, didn’t he, George dear? Anyway, after he passed, the cottage came to us, and I redecorated a bit, here and there. Do you think there’s too much chintz?”

This last was addressed to Molly, who nodded, confused, shrinking into the sofa, unable to track what was happening. Did the woman ever breathe? “Well, never mind,” Carol continued. “George thinks it’s too much, but I rather like it. I always say, chintz makes a house a home.” She gave a loud laugh, oblivious to Molly’s growing discomfort.

“Hope you’ll be happy here, old chap,” George said to Sherlock, pulling out a pipe and lighting it. “I’m sure it’s just the ticket for the young lady here to get well. Sometimes you can see dolphins out in the bay. And you’ll want to mind the step out back, it’s starting to crumble a bit, just on the edges. I really need to get that sorted one of these days. But Uncle Patrick liked it here, well enough.” He glanced around proudly, looking a little like lord of the manor. Sherlock stifled a cough.

“Oh, bless his heart,” Carol said. “He had a sad life, didn’t he dear?”

“Aye, that he did,” George agreed, nodding knowingly. “That he did.” He blew a thick cloud of tobacco smoke towards the fireplace. It lingered in the air, acrid blue wisps floating in the shafts of sunlight streaming in from the windows.

“You see, honey,” Carol resumed, turning back to Molly, “he was a bachelor. Never married. The love of his life ran off with another man. Can you believe it,” she said, leaning in, “she couldn’t wait anymore and went off with the innkeeper. Of course, that was before my time, right after the war. He was in the RAF, Battle of Britain, you know, quite the hero. But he never saw her again. Broke his poor heart. He was never the same after that, never stopped talking about her. Went a bit funny in the head.” 

George nodded sagely and tapped his temple. “Bit funny,” he repeated. “Perfectly nice, though. Wouldn’t harm a fly.”

“Yes, but how sad,” Carol said. “Can you imagine, my dear,” she said to Molly, sighing dramatically. “All those years, alone, pining for his lost love.” Molly turned pale and started to shake.

“Maybe you could put that out,” Sherlock said to George. “It’s making Molly ill.”

“N…no,” Molly said, haltingly, swallowing firmly, a little green around the edges. “I’m fine.”

“George! Put that nasty thing out,” Carol admonished him. “Poor thing,” she said, patting Molly’s hand. “You are a bit delicate, aren’t you? Anyway, isn’t it awful? Decades knowing your only true love married someone else. I kept telling him to move on, find another bird, but he couldn’t let it go. He held things deep in his heart, didn’t he dear?”

“Yes, he sure did,” George agreed, tapping his pipe against the edge of the stone mantel, knocking smelly, half burnt tobacco onto the slate under his feet. “Caught him one day with a old German Luger in his mouth, and I was like, hold on, old chap, you don’t want to be doing that—“

Molly thought she was going to be sick at the thought of the lonely old man with a gun in his mouth. She’d been feeling awful since she woke up, confused and pained, and the room was spinning. A dark, horrible feeling was spreading through her. She burst into tears. Unable to control herself, great, gulping sobs wracked her body.

Sherlock sprang to his feet and rushed to her side.

“George! Now see what you’ve done with your wretched story,” Carol chided.

“I say, sorry, old girl,” George said. “Put my foot in it, have I? I’m terribly sorry, young lady.”

Carol jumped up. “We’ll just get along now, and leave you two alone. Probably shouldn’t have shown up right away, her being so soon out of hospital. We’ll check in with you later, after she’s had a chance to recover. C’mon, George,” she said, sternly, grabbing his hand and dragging him out of the cottage. “I’m so sorry, my dear!” she called. “You rest and get better.”

Sherlock picked Molly up, and she sagged against him, weeping. He kicked the door shut behind the departing couple, and carried her into her bedroom, placing her gently on the bed. Molly continued to cry, hiccuping miserably. Sherlock grabbed a box of tissues and sat next to her, stretching his long legs out on the bed, putting his arm around her. She turned into him, clutching his shirt, her head on his shoulder. “I…I can’t st...stop,” she managed, still crying.

“Shhh. Hush, now,” he soothed. “You’re okay. They were just too much, and you’re tired.” He stroked her hair. 

“That…that poor old man!” Molly wailed.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock said. “He’s dead now. No, I mean…” he trailed off as Molly started crying harder. “I mean, yes, it’s sad.” He felt lost and panicky, not sure how to comfort her. He finally decided he should just hold her and not say anything, accidentally discovering the perfect thing to do. He rubbed her back and petted her hair whilst she cried, giving her tissues when she flung a used one over her shoulder onto the floor.

Eventually, Molly settled down, her sobs slowly diminishing into sniffles. She took a few calming breaths, wiped her face and blushed. “I’m so...embarrassed, Sherlock,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s fine, Molly. You’re recovering and it’s bound to mess with your…emotions. Things like this happen. It’s been a long day for you, and I swear she never took a breath from the moment she walked in the door. It was horrible,” he chuckled. “If you hadn’t started crying, I was about to.” He smiled at her, lifting her chin with a finger, and pressed his lips to her cheek. 

Molly laughed, still a trifle flustered. “They meant well,” she said.

“Yes, they did. Even if they were a bit…awful. Are you hungry?” he asked. 

She nodded. “A little.”

“Well, I can make us some sandwiches, we have a giant bag of crisps, and there’s a bottle of wine in the fridge. If you stop blubbering, you may have half a glass.”

She hugged him and sighed deeply. “Okay. I’m all right now. But I want...a whole glass of wine. I need to sleep like a rock tonight,” she said.

That night he had a panic attack. He sat in his room, his hand over his mouth, trying not to groan too loudly, fearful of waking Molly and have her discover his secret. He rocked back and forth on the bed, breathing as John had taught him, and willed himself to power through it as silently as possible. He wondered if he would be subject to this torture for years, if he would ever feel normal again. He drove the thought from his mind. He couldn’t think about that right now, choosing instead to concentrate on Molly. She was the only thing that mattered.

*****


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

It didn’t take them long to settle into a pleasant rhythm. After a light breakfast, they’d take a short walk up the white sand beach, picking up interesting rocks, bits of driftwood, and seashells. They’d do Molly’s physical therapy and have lunch. In the afternoons Molly napped, tried to read, played with Toby, or, if the weather cooperated, soaked up the sun in the garden. During those times, Sherlock took to rambling in the low hills surrounding the cottage that fell away to the beach. At the eastern end of the cove, at the base of the bigger cliffs, he found some fossils and picked them up for Mycroft’s collection. He started taking a canvas bag with him to collect things in. He’d also taken to wearing jeans or sometimes sweatpants, t-shirts and jumpers. Molly did the same. There was nothing to get dressed up for. They could relax and be comfortable.

Within a few days, the windowsills of their little cottage were starting to fill up with their found treasures. Once Sherlock brought back some pretty red seaweed and draped it over the piano, but when it started to stink, Molly coiled it on his bed as a joke. He threw it out, holding his nose whilst she laughed. Snail shells, more rocks, pine cones, and an abandoned birds nest he found in a tree, all found a place in the nooks and crannies of the cottage. In the evening Sherlock would light a fire, sort his specimens and play his violin for Molly. She was content to be near him, watch the fire, and listen to him play. Sometimes they’d sit at the piano together, plucking out simple melodies, or Molly would play one handed to accompany Sherlock’s violin. Occasionally they watched telly.

On their fourth morning they were sitting at the table after breakfast, working on the exercises for Molly’s arm. They were focusing on three areas: strength, range of motion, and motor control. It was slow, painful work, and the doctors had warned them her recovery was not going to be a straight, upward trajectory. With neurological damage, sometimes bad days followed good ones. The exercises were challenging, and today, Molly was growing short-tempered. 

“No, stop, please Sherlock. It…it hurts too much.”

He stopped immediately, still holding her hand, and looked into her face. It was creased with discomfort and frustration, and her breathing was short and choppy. “Okay, we’ll take a little break,” he said. “Want more tea? Paracetamol?” She shook her head and cradled her arm, pouting. He leaned back in his chair, appraising her. “What’s going on, Molly? We just started.”

“I don’t want to do this,” she said in a small voice.

“You mean today? You’re negotiating for a day off?”

“No, I mean I don’t want to _have_ to do this.” She stomped her foot and let out a breath she’d been holding. Her face was getting red.

“Oh. I get it,” he said, nodding his head.

“This isn’t fair,” she complained, tears welling up in her eyes. “I know I’m acting like a three year old and being stupid, but I just hate this. I’m so…angry, Sherlock! What’s worse is I feel sorry for myself. And, if there’s one thing I hate, it’s self pity. It’s…weak.”

“Right, Molly,” he said, sarcastically. “You’re so weak.” He rolled his eyes.

“I mean, it’s not like this is anyone’s fault, so there’s no one I can even be mad at. It sucks. It’s just bad luck. It’s easier when you can blame someone.”

Sherlock sighed. “True,” he agreed. “You got a rough deal with this one. It isn’t fair and you have every right to be angry. Hey, why don’t you get mad at me?”

“You’re not...responsible for this.”

“I could be. Besides, you’ve been mad at me before, so you’re used to it. Should be easy.” He grinned.

“I can’t be mad at you for no reason, Sherlock. Usually, you give me...provocation. Like…using. Not that I want you to start using again,” she added, quickly. “I hate that.”

“Well,” he said, offhandedly. “I can’t just make up something on the spot. That’s what females do.”

“What?” She cocked her head, not sure if she’d heard him correctly.

“You know, how you…girls jump to conclusions before listening to the explanation. It’s kind of...irrational, don’t you think? Like now. You’re being all pissy and weepy over nothing. Why are girls so stupidly emotional?” He heaved a beleaguered sigh.

“We don’t jump...you just said…and, anyway, we’re not…stupidly emotional!” She frowned, her insides churning in confusion, her tears threatening to spill over. He was being mean and horrible.

“Of course you are,” he said, dismissively, with a flick of his hand. “But I suppose it’s because female brains are smaller. Well, weaker.”

“Our brains are not weaker than yours!” She was getting angry now. She clenched her jaw and her fist, but he didn’t heed the warning signals.

“I’d explain it to you, but you wouldn’t understand.” He tapped his temple significantly, raising his eyebrows. “It’s okay. Really, Molly. I don’t want you to be upset over the fact women are dumber than men.” He shrugged. “It’s not worth arguing over, it’s just the way things are.”

A wave of raw, fiery outrage swept over her. “YOU…FUCKING…ARSEHOLE!” Molly shouted. To her embarrassment, she started crying.

Sherlock quickly propped up his left elbow on the table, leaning forward, his palm facing her. “Hit me, Molly. Left hand. Hard.”

She growled, made a fist with her left hand and drove it straight into the target he offered with as much force as she could. “Again,” he commanded. “Harder, you stupid woman.” She hit him again, and again, tears running down her cheeks, taking all her ire and frustration at her illness, her bad luck, and her life-long loneliness out on his hand. Finally, she stopped, short of breath, her chest heaving. Her knuckles were stinging and her arm ached. Feeling dizzy, she clutched the table for support. “Well,” he drawled, “if you’re going to hit like a girl we’re not going to get anywhere.”

Molly was furious. Blindly reacting to his snide, arrogant comments, she stood up, adrenaline surging, hauled off and clocked him on the chin with her right fist. He crashed back in his chair and grabbed the edge of the table, nearly sliding down the wall. “Ow,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw.

She gasped in horror, her hand over her mouth. “Oh, god! Are you okay?” she asked, reaching out for him. He burst out laughing and she looked at him, stunned. “You…you bastard!” she yelled. “You did that on purpose!”

“Good punch,” he grinned in admiration, the glorious vision of how fierce she’d looked etched into his mind. “Wow. You’re…gorgeous.”

Molly cheeks flushed pink. “I’ll get you something for that,” she said, going into the kitchen and twisting some ice cubes into a tea towel. She came back out and gently situated the ice pack on the side of his chin. A dark red spot was beginning to form. “Thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate what you just did. That was…very generous of you. I’m sorry I…hit you like that.”

“My pleasure,” he chuckled, working his jaw with his right hand and shaking his left. It stung a little bit. “We need to focus on your left, but your right seems pretty good. Not today though, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, smiling at him. “Sherlock?”

“Mmm?” He touched his chin briefly, checking for blood. “Is there a lump?” he asked.

She ran her fingers gently along his jawline before nodding. “Yes. Sorry again. Sherlock…you, um, don’t really believe all that stuff you said. About women, do you?”

“God, no,” he laughed. “I’m not that much of an arsehole. You are so easy to wind up. Women are vastly superior to men. Everyone knows that.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Good,” she said. She giggled, nervously. “I can’t believe how angry you made me. But if you ever talk misogynistic shit in front of me again, no one will ever find your body. I know at least a dozen women who would help me, including your own mum.”

“Yikes,” he said, impressed.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, indicating his jaw.

“No,” he lied. “But the least you could do is kiss it better.” Molly stood up, leaned over, and gently pressed her lips to the darkening bruise. He clutched his heart dramatically; she blushed. “Let’s go for a walk,” he said, jumping up, smiling, “before you beat me to death.”

***

On their sixth night, after dinner, Molly was outside, sitting on the glider in the garden in the dark, wrapped in a blanket, looking at the sky. “Sherlock?” she called. “Turn out the lights and come out here.”

“Why?” he yelled. “I’m sorting these snail shells.”

“Just get out here!”

Mumbling to himself, Sherlock snapped off the lights and went outside. He handed her a necklace. “Look, Molly, a left handed snail shell. I put it on a ribbon for you.”

She accepted the pretty token and looped it around her neck, smiling at him, pleased. She stretched her arm towards the sky. “Look up, Sherlock,” she said.

“Wow,” he said, sitting down next to her. The sky was packed with stars. There was no moon, and it seemed the entire universe was sparkling just for the two them. The Milky Way blazed majestically across the sky, with the galactic centre rising over the sea. “Wow,” he said again, stunned at the beautiful view. “I had no idea. They don’t look like this in London.”

“Over there, see those stars? The ones that kind of...make a square? That’s Ursa Major, the Great Bear. We call it the Plough. And that one is Polaris, the North Star. It appears fixed in the sky, and everything rotates around it. And winding between them is Ursa Minor, the Little Bear.”

“You mean they all have names?” he asked.

She laughed. “Yes, silly. See that little group of stars up there? That’s the Pleiades, the seven sisters. They were the daughters of Atlas, who holds up the earth, and Zeus transformed them into stars and put them in the sky for safekeeping. They’re still pursued by Orion the Hunter, he’s...over there. And there’s the planet Mars, named for the God of War.” She pointed at a red dot. “He was called Ares in Ancient Greece.”

“You mean they all have stories?”

“Of course. In many languages and cultures throughout human history. John was right, wasn’t he? You really don’t know any of this.”

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at a bright dot moving slowly across the dark sky.

Molly peered at the object. “That’s a satellite. It might even be the...International Space Station. I think it is. There’s people in there, you know. We’re just tiny little specks, spinning on a tiny ball in a vast…galaxy, rushing through an even vaster universe. Isn’t that amazing?”

“How do you know all this?”

“I used to look at the stars with my dad when I was little. He had a...telescope he’d built himself. He even ground the lenses for it by hand. I love the sky.” She snuggled closer to him, looking up dreamily. “I missed the stars when I was in…hospital. Not all trivia deserves…deleting, does it?” she said. Sherlock looked at her, nodding, and draped his arm over the back of the glider, barely skimming her shoulders. “Ooo, look! A shooting star. Make a wish, Sherlock.” She leaned against him.

“You make one for me, Molly,” he said, softly, smiling at her. They stayed outside in the cool night air, looking at the stars and talking until the wind picked up and a sudden squall drove them indoors.

The next morning Molly woke up and stretched, filled with a delicious and welcome sense of well-rested ease. She could hear Sherlock in the kitchen, arguing with someone. Slipping out of bed, she tiptoed down the hall and listened.

“You told me to open that one,” Sherlock said.

“Meow,” was the insistent reply.

“No, you chose it, you must have wanted it. I’m not opening another one. You’ve turned your nose up at three already. Don’t talk back to me. Yes, you have.”

“Meow!” Toby said.

“Eat that!” Sherlock snapped.

Molly peeked around the corner. Sherlock was sitting cross legged on the floor in his pajamas, tapping Toby’s food bowl, several open cans of food surrounding him. He was trying, unsuccessfully, to entice the finicky feline into eating. Toby wound himself around Sherlock, meowing, his upright tail quivering, ignoring the food.

Molly giggled, her hand over her mouth.

Sherlock jumped up and turned around, flushing pink. “How long have you been there?” he demanded.

“Long…enough,” Molly said, grinning.

“Your damn cat is stupid,” he complained.

“Well, he managed to get you to open...three cans of food,” she said. “Who’s stupid?”

“Fine!” Sherlock yelled. “I’m the stupid one!” He slammed a pan on the stove, grumbling, and started cooking breakfast whilst Molly laughed.

Later, they went for their walk up the beach. The sea was calm, and a watery sun tried to take the chill from the air. They could see several fishing boats on the sea in the distance, surrounded by flocks of noisy, divebombing seagulls. Arm in arm they slowly wandered along the beach, freshly washed from the night’s rain, looking for shells and bits of driftwood.

“I still don’t understand how you managed to make eggs that were…burnt and raw at the same time,” Molly said, laughing.

Sherlock shook his head, perplexed. “I had thought it can’t be that difficult. Cooking. Food, heat. I mean, Mrs. Hudson manages. I’ll get better. Hopefully before we starve.” He chuckled.

“I know you will. It’s just chemistry, after all. I have faith you’ll learn before we have to...resort to eating your snails. Or, god forbid, I have to cook. I’m going to take full advantage of your offer to do everything, Sherlock. I want to be...treated like a queen.”

“Yes, your highness. How about lunch today at The Three Bells, that little pub in Hordle?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she replied. “Why don’t we look for a cookbook somewhere whilst we’re out? They must have a...bookstore or library.” She trotted a few steps ahead. “Oh, look, Sherlock! It’s a dead seagull.” She bent to pick it up but Sherlock stopped her. She peered at it. “Gosh, it’s big.”

“It’s probably crawling with bacteria,” he said. “Don’t you touch it.”

“But I want it, Sherlock,” she said.

“What for?”

“I want to study the decomposition process. Oh, there’s another one! Poor things. I wonder what killed them. Must have been the storm last night. May I have them? Please, Sherlock? You could make a little plot for me, and I’ll have a dead bird farm. We can study it, might learn something...write a paper.” She tugged on his arm and gave him a sweet, pleading look he couldn’t resist.

“All right,” he agreed, pulling out a handkerchief and picking up the dead birds.

When they got back to the cottage he cleared a little area of ground in the garden and they planted the birds. Molly collected soil samples which Sherlock said he’d analyze that evening. They argued a bit and finally decided to leave one gull on the surface and shallow bury the other one for comparative purposes. Sherlock rooted around in the garden shed and found some picket fencing which he set up around the makeshift cemetery/science experiment. Molly flapped her good hand in excitement. “It’s so pretty!” she squealed. “I can’t wait for the maggots to arrive!” Sherlock leaned on his shovel and grinned, happy to see her so gruesomely pleased. 

They went to lunch in the village, where they each wolfed down a large plate of fish and chips. “It’s all this fresh sea air,” Molly noted. “Makes you hungry. I can barely remember a time when I wasn’t breathing formaldehyde all day.”

“Petrol fumes for me. We’ll get oxygen poisoning,” he joked, laughing.

They found three cookbooks for Sherlock in the small library, some books describing the local flora and fauna, and an area history. After a short stroll through the village, they returned to their cottage. 

Molly was exhausted and flopped on the sofa, rubbing her arm which had started to ache. Sherlock sat down next to her and massaged it carefully. His strong, warm hands felt heavenly on her skin, relaxing her tired muscles. “You’re overdoing,” he said, reprimanding himself. “I shouldn’t have let you do so much.”

“Let...me?” Molly repeated sharply, her eyes narrowing. 

“Yes. Someone has to be in charge. Clearly, I’m the best one for the job.”

“And...why is…that?” Her speech worsened when she was tired.

“Because,” he said with a smile, gently teasing her. “You’re brain damaged. You’d have us sleeping outside just to look at the stars. We’d get pneumonia and die.” He shot her a mischievous glance and winked. She punched him lightly on the arm and grinned. “But seriously, Molly, no more physical activity for you today.” She nodded obediently. They sat there, digesting their lunch, relaxing, and talking about methodology for their dead bird farm. He made her promise she’d let him collect the samples. He didn’t want her exposed to anything dangerous. She grumbled something about over-protecting, but agreed. An hour later, he got up for his afternoon walk. “What will you do?” he asked, shrugging into his coat.

“There’s this article on the…pathogenesis of lupus I’d like to try to read in the newest Journal…of Pathology. It may be impossible, my brain isn’t…up for much, but I’m going to give it a whirl. I’ll probably fall asleep,” she admitted with a shy grin. “I don’t seem to be…good for much these days.”

“You’re good for me,” he said, smiling. He leaned in for a goodbye kiss as usual, but lingered on her lips a trifle longer than necessary. Pulling away, he looked at her thoughtfully, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Don’t tire yourself out. Promise?”

She nodded, her stomach doing a delightful little flip at his compliment. “Promise. Have a nice time exploring,” she said, settling into the sofa and pulling out her phone. “Bring back dead things!” she yelled as he left.

Five minutes later she was already drifting away from the article, her mind wandering, unable to concentrate on the dense technical jargon. She put her phone aside and ran her finger along her lips, thinking of his kiss. Molly pulled the snail shell strung on a piece of ribbon out of her t-shirt where it lay between her breasts as a continual reminder of him. She examined it, admiring its smooth surface and the pretty stripes of color, smiling, pleased and happy. It wasn’t worth anything, but just the fact he’d made it for her made it precious.

She sighed with satisfaction, thinking about how wonderful he could be. He’d been so gentle with her during her illness, so attentive and kind. She loved his sparkling blue eyes when they turned towards her, shining with amusement. She loved being able to watch his easy grace moving around the cottage, his assurance, his confidence enhancing his innate sexiness. She started thinking about the sensuous shape of his lips.

Closing her eyes, she slid down the sofa and began to fantasize about him one day really kissing her, passionately, putting his beautiful hands on her body, touching her skin, caressing her, needing her. She wet her lips with her tongue, wanting to hold him in her arms, gaze into his impossible eyes, run her fingers through his dark curls and feel his hard body moving urgently within hers. She stretched, arching her back, feeling hazily relaxed and aroused, desire sparking between her legs. She began to roll her hips, and her hand wandered under her t-shirt, rubbing her breast. A little grunt escaped her as she began to play with her nipple through her bra.

Sherlock was half way down the slope towards the sea before he realized he’d forgotten the canvas bag he used for collecting. He almost went on, but the storm last night meant there might be some good stuff uncovered at the fossil cliffs, and he hated carrying muddy items in his coat pockets. He started back toward the cottage, letting himself in quietly in case Molly had fallen asleep. He heard a whimper from the sitting room, and just as he was going to call her name, he realized it wasn’t a groan of pain he’d heard. It was a moan of pleasure. He peeked around the corner.

Molly was sprawled out on the sofa, eyes closed, her t-shirt and bra pushed up, exposing her beautiful, pale breasts. She was fingering them, twisting a rosy nipple between her right thumb and forefinger, tugging on it. She had the middle finger of her left hand between her lips, sucking on it, biting it, caressing it with her tongue. Sherlock’s mouth went dry. She fondled her breasts, teasing them to hard peaks, enjoying their taut, pleasant roundness. She slowly ran her hand down the curve of her belly and over her hip, before sliding her fingers under her waistband. 

After a moment she withdrew her hand and unfastened her trousers, wanting to feel the open air on her sex. Raising her hips off the sofa momentarily, she pushed the trousers and her knickers partway down her thighs, exposing a soft thatch of dark curls. She slipped her hand between her legs, stroking her warm, wet centre, spreading her glistening juices around, lubricating her opening. She moaned, and that sound shot directly to his groin, vibrating through his core.

Sherlock couldn’t stop watching Molly as she writhed with pleasure on the sofa. Part of him felt he should back away unnoticed and leave; he knew that spying on her like this was wrong. Another part of him was strangely transfixed. She was so lovely, her sweet body flushed and trembling with desire, her little teeth biting her bottom lip as she strained against her own hand, small sighs and moans escaping her lips. He felt a rush of blood to his cock, stiffening it, need coursing through him. He bit his own lip and continued to watch, mesmerized.

She opened her legs wider, pushing a finger into herself and started rubbing her clit with her thumb, rolling her hips and grinding her pelvis against an imaginary lover. Her breath grew shorter, and soon she was grunting and panting as she plunged another finger into herself, arching her back and making little mewling sounds. Sherlock, rock hard and unable to stop himself, began to stroke his cock through his jeans.

She was getting closer, rubbing herself faster. Her head was thrown back as her body began to tighten, her toes curling, and suddenly she cried out as she came, her body shuddering with its release, calling his name, “Sherlock…Sherlock…”

He backed away, silently let himself out of the cottage, and ran down the slope to the privacy of a small copse of young beeches. He took a deep breath, holding onto a tree trunk for support, trying to collect himself. That was one of the most erotic things he’d ever witnessed, and he couldn’t shake the flood of emotion washing through him. He gulped with frustration, still hard and filled with desire for her. Unfastening his jeans, he released his erection and began to stroke himself, seeing her face in his mind, glowing with ecstasy as she imagined him fucking her. 

The thought of them making love, moving together, and being sheathed inside her warm depths quickly brought him to climax. With a low groan, he spilled his release onto the ground. Then he ran down to the shore, stripped off all his clothes, and yelping, plunged into the cold sea.

Back in the cottage, Molly roused herself from her reverie, pulled her clothes back together, went into her bedroom and laid down, drawing the duvet over her. She fell asleep in seconds.

*****


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Sherlock, refreshed from his swim and his subsequent explorations at the fossil cliffs, returned to the cottage several hours later. There was a large box, a delivery, waiting on the front step, so he dragged it inside and left it in the middle of the sitting room. He made a bit of noise doing that, wanting to announce his presence, feeling a little embarrassed at what he had witnessed and subsequently done. He didn’t want a repeat of it because he wasn’t sure he could keep his hands off her if there was. He needn’t have worried. Molly was sleeping soundly and didn’t stir even though he banged around loudly for a few minutes. Relieved, he washed his hands and started peeling prawns for dinner, following a recipe in one of his cookbooks.

An hour later, Molly appeared in the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and yawning, a red pressure spot on her cheek from her long nap. Her hair was down, tousled and falling in a great mass over her shoulders, loose because she couldn’t put it in a ponytail by herself. Her t-shirt had slipped off her shoulder, exposing a tantalizing expanse of creamy, pale skin and the thin strap of her bra. Sherlock thought she looked lovely; warm, unconsciously sexy, and utterly desirable.

She looked him up and down, smiling. He was wearing an apron and had a smear of something green on his chin. Several pans were boiling furiously on the stove. “Smells good,” she said. “What are you making?” She sidled up to him, placing her small hand on his back and peering into the steaming cookware, her nearness making it difficult for him to think.

“Curried prawns with rice and spinach,” he responded, stirring the pot and adjusting the temperature, trying hard not to stare at her breasts, which had recently achieved vastly increased importance in his mind. He swallowed, the image of their perfection burned into his brain, especially the little freckle on the underside of the left one. He wondered distractedly what it would be like to put his mouth on her soft skin, how she would feel and taste under his lips. Would she quiver with pleasure as he teased her nipple with his tongue? Would she moan, wind her fingers in his hair, grind against him, and call his name? Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and mentally slapped himself, attempting to return his focus to cooking. “Hopefully I won’t burn it. Keep your fingers crossed. Want a cup of tea?”

“Not right now, thanks.” She reached up, wiped the smudge of spinach off his face and rinsed her fingers before wandering into the sitting room. She saw the giant box. “What’s this?”

Sherlock followed her, leaning against the door jamb and crossing his arms over his chest. “Open it,” he said, smugly. “It’s for you.” He handed her a scissors.

Her eyes got big. “A present! It’s enormous!” she said, gleefully, looking at him. “Is it a pony?”

“Yes, it’s a pony. Better open it before he suffocates and we have to plant him in the bird farm.”

Giggling, Molly knelt down in front of the box and began to cut the strapping. Sherlock helped her, finally uncovering a large telescope.

“A Celestron!” she said, delighted. “Wow! It’s…beautiful! Really? For me?” He nodded, grinning. “Oh! Oh, Sherlock. Thank you! You’re so generous.” She turned towards him, throwing her arm around his neck and hugging him tightly, cheek to cheek, her body pressed against his chest. Then she kissed him. It wasn’t far from a chaste kiss, but neither was it nothing. It was the perfect combination of excitement, gratitude, and regard. Sherlock kissed her back. Releasing him, Molly turned back towards her telescope and began sorting the pieces for assembly, a radiant glow on her cheeks, her eyes bright. “It’s so…big!” she chortled.

“Eleven inches. I hope that’s big enough.”

She waggled her eyebrows at him suggestively and then blushed and dissolved into embarrassed giggles. “I’m sure it will be more than adequate,” she managed.

Sherlock smiled in amusement. He couldn’t take his eyes off her; she was so beautiful, so happy. It pleased him immensely. “I thought you might get a kick out of it. You’ll have to teach me more about the stars.”

She smiled softly at him. “I’d like that, Sherlock. I’d like that very much.” 

“Look, Molly, you can connect it to your computer and download images directly.”

“It’s so perfect,” she said. They sat side by side, quietly putting the telescope together and reading the instructions until Molly stopped suddenly. She sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

“Oh, god!” Sherlock jumped up and ran into the kitchen. He came back out and hung his head. “I burned our dinner,” he said, sheepishly. Molly laughed.

Later, over tinned soup and sandwiches, Sherlock looked at Molly and cleared his throat. “I’m going to visit Eurus tomorrow. I’ll be gone most of the day. Are you going to be okay here on your own?” 

“Yes, of course. How will you get there?”

“I’ll drive to the airfield in Bournemouth. Mycroft has arranged for a helicopter.”

“Good. And how is she doing?”

“Well, she’s still not talking, so it’s a little…unsatisfactory. I take my violin and play for her. I don’t know if it helps.” He sighed, his eyes clouding with sadness. “I ask her questions she can’t answer. I tell her…things.” He shrugged. “I wish…” He sank into silence, his thoughts drifting to a lonely gray cell on the island prison.

“Yes? What do you wish? she prodded, gently.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, abruptly. “I can’t change what happened to her. I can’t undo the past.” He rubbed his brow, suddenly tired.

“You were a child. There wasn’t anything you could have done. You don’t have to feel guilty about that.” Molly was silent for a moment, thinking. “You know, Sherlock, what happened all those years ago didn’t just happen to her. It happened to her, and you, and Mycroft, and your parents, too,” Molly offered, softly. “There’s a lot that needs to be healed. For all of you.”

“You’re right, of course. I got an inkling of that talking to Mycroft the day…the day you woke up. How much it…infested all our lives.”

“It will take time. And, Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

“It’s okay to feel sad about what might have been. That’s part of healing.”

“Even if it doesn’t change anything? That seems like a waste of energy.”

“Sometimes,” Molly said, wisely, “changing now can change the past.” Sherlock looked doubtful. “You’ll find out,” she added. “And you can always talk to me. I know you’re supporting me right now, but I can be here for you, too. We might be able to achieve some kind of…mutual healing.”

Sherlock looked at her warmly. He nodded. “I’d like that,” he said, softly.

That night he lay in bed, tossing and turning, thinking about her sleeping just a few meters from him. He longed to go to her, take her in his arms, and hold her close. He craved her nearness, the press of her warm body against his, filling his empty arms. He heard a noise from her bedroom and tensed, wondering if he was going to have to lay here listening to her pleasuring herself. He wanted her so badly he wasn’t sure he could handle it. 

He heard the noise again. It didn’t sound like pleasure. It sounded like a pained whimper. Getting up, he tiptoed across the hall and stood outside her door, peeking in on her. She groaned in her sleep and thrashed her legs; she was having a bad dream. 

Sherlock crept into her bedroom, eased himself into her bed, and gently put his arm around her. She immediately turned into him, snuggling against him in her sleep, quieting quickly, her head on his shoulder. His presence seemed to comfort her. He stroked her hair softly, calming her. Sherlock stayed there for a little while, until she stopped murmuring and settled back into restful sleep. He carefully extracted himself without waking her and slipped out, returning to his own room. He didn’t know it then, but it was the first of many stealthy visits to her bed, to soothe her when the bad dreams came.

***

A few days later Molly woke up early, feeling thick, blurry, and cranky. Her head was full of hazy memories that had drifted, unfocused, through her dreams. Her lower back ached, and she recognized the signs of an impending period. Dragging herself out of bed, she went into the kitchen and started the coffee. Sherlock was still asleep, she’d have to send him out for supplies when he got up. Digging around in the cupboards, Molly found a stale croissant. Slathering it with jam, she wolfed it down and took some paracetamol. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she went into the sitting room to feel crummy and pout. Toby jumped up next to her and began to bathe.

An hour later Sherlock got up and staggered out to the sitting room in his pajamas. “Morning,” he mumbled. His hair was sticking up on the side. Molly smiled. He looked like a little boy.

“Morning, Sherlock. Um, hon, I need some things from the market. Some Kotex.”

“Okay,” he yawned, rubbing his face with both hands.

“Do you know what those are?” He seemed so nonchalant she was suspicious.

“Yeah, sure.”

“What are they?”

“They’re those things you blow your nose in.”

Despite her cramps, Molly laughed out loud. “Not quite,” she said. “They’re feminine hygiene products. Would you be a sweetie and run to the store for me?”

“Oh,” he said. “I...yes, of course.”

“Okay. I need both tampons and napkins because my flow can get quite heavy and sometimes I use both. Also, my cramps are really bad, so could you pick up a heating pad, too?” Sherlock swallowed a bit nervously and nodded. “Can you get the pads with wings? They come in a blue package with a pink stripe on it. The long ones, narrow, but not the extra absorbent. And not the tampons with the cardboard applicator because those tend to stick, so get the plastic ones, and please don’t get any scented ones. And not the super ones, they’re too absorbent.”

Sherlock turned a little pale, but nodded. “Long, not super, blue. Anything else you want?”

“Ummm….ice cream! Chocolate ice cream. Like a lot of chocolate. With maybe a fudge swirl but no nuts or other bits in there. I mean, brownie chunks would be good but not caramel or hard pieces. And…crisps. Lots of really salty crisps. Some pickles would be good, too. Anchovies. Oh! Those little Bakewell tarts. I love those. Hot chocolate. And whipped cream.” She tapped her lip, thinking about her salt, fat and sugar needs. “Chocolate covered pretzels. And bananas.”

His brow furrowed as he tried to concentrate on her ever expanding list of highly specific needs. “Oh my god,” he muttered. “Are you pregnant? Do you eat this every month?”

Molly ignored his comment. “Do you want me to write this down for you?” she asked, overly sweet.

He got up and headed to his bedroom to change. “Nope. I got it. On my way.” An hour later he was back with four large Tesco bags. Molly was snuggled up on the sofa under the throw, petting Toby and dozing. 

“I think I just learned more than I ever wanted to know,” he said, sinking to his knees and unpacking the bags, looking for the ice cream. “I don’t know how you ladies deal with this. Luckily, there was a nice girl who helped me.”

“I’m sure she did,” Molly sniped, with a pang of jealousy. He drew admiring glances wherever he went. She’d seen women before, nearly falling over themselves to help him the moment they saw him. As soon as he opened his mouth and began to deduce them, however, they usually left quickly, angry and insulted. Well, she reasoned, she had his unparalleled stupidity going for her.

“I freaked out a bit with the…your…products,” he admitted sheepishly, “so I got one of everything.” He took out eight packages, four of tampons and four of pads. “By the way, look! They all come in blue packages with pink stripes. There must be a law. Okay, ice cream, three kinds, yellow fuzzy socks, one heating pad, some sparkly pink nail polish because the girl said you’d like it, and vast quantities of junk food, including anchovies.” He raised an eyebrow. 

“They go on the crisps,” she explained. 

He shuddered. “That’s disgusting. I should have just gotten you five pounds of salt, you could eat it with a spoon. And here’s a coloring book with markers that I thought might be helpful for your left arm.”

“Winnie the Pooh!” Molly exclaimed. “I love Winnie the Pooh! I always wanted to be Rabbit.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock said, remembering. “I always wanted to be—“

“Tigger,” they said together. Molly snorted with amusement.

“Also,” he continued, a bit pink around the ears, “the girl talked me into this. A smutty historical romance novel with some ridiculously hirsute man ravishingly a freakishly buxom woman on the cover, which you need to read aloud to me, slowly, especially the dirty parts.”

“Ooo! Goody!” Molly cackled, pouncing on the book. “Dark Desires,” she grinned, running her finger over the gold embossed title. “Sounds perfect! I love trash!”

“So much for the pathogenesis of lupus…” he commented whilst Molly smiled. “...three bottles of wine, which you are not allowed to drink all at once. And,” he said, pulling a small plastic baby doll out of one of the bags, “one new arm.” He popped the left arm off the doll and showed it to her. “I’m going to bury this in our garden. I told you I’d grow you a new arm.”

“I do hope the finished product isn’t quite that…pudgy,” she said, smiling at him. “But you’re so thoughtful, Sherlock. Thank you for all this. It’s better than Christmas!”

“Well,” he said, standing up, pleased but embarrassed at her compliment. She went with him whilst he scraped a little hole in their plot, planted the plastic doll arm, and covered it with soil. He fashioned a tiny cross out of two twigs and a bit of leftover string from his pocket, and stuck it in the earth. They stood there, arm in arm, looking at their grim garden, the decomposing seagull covered in flies, beetles, and worms. “Now,” he said, “what do you want for lunch?”

She thought for a moment. “Ice cream and pickles,” she responded, sighing with contentment.

*****


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

—A few days later—

“Sherlock?” Her voice had taken on that coy, girlish quality which meant a favor was required. She was curled up on the sofa, petting Toby and reading a small booklet she’d found in the shelves. It was early evening, and they were going outside to watch the stars in a little while. Sherlock had put the telescope out after dinner to acclimate.

“Mmm,” he grunted, sitting at the dining table, trying to scrape a stubborn bit of calcified earth off one of the trilobite fossils he’d picked up the day before. It was a nice example; if he could get it cleaned up well enough he could give it to Mycroft. Maybe he should order some dental tools. They might come in handy for this small work.

“Did you know there’s an unsolved mystery in Hordle?” 

“What kind?”

“Missing object. An early 16th century gold chalice that disappeared from the old church. Look. Drawing.”

“Mmm,” he grunted, glancing over.

“It’s French, apparently. Listen. ‘Attributed to Benedict Ramel. On the deep bowl of this 25 centimeter, footed, solid 14 carat gold Calix are large images depicting three events in the life of the Blessed Virgin Mary—the Annunciation, the Betrothal, and the Marriage. Also on the bowl, alternating with the scenes of Saint Mary, three large fine-quality cabochon garnets were inlaid. The decorative knop, the round bulb on the stem, is finished with baroque style ornamentation. The base depicts three scenes, worked in relief, of the stations of the cross and have been detailed with repousse and embossing.’ Wow.”

“Sounds like a two, he muttered.

“I don’t know. Might be amusing. There’s a death involved.”

He put down his work and looked at her, his interest piqued. “Murder?”

“Supposedly suicide.”

“You fancy solving it?” 

“Yes. Yes, I do! Don’t laugh at me! I could do it with no help from you.”

He covered his smile with his hand. “Want to make a bet?”

“You don’t think I can do it,” she pouted.

“I didn’t say that. Bet?”

“You’re on. How much?”

“Twenty quid?”

“And a nice dinner,” she added.

“Done,” he agreed. “Wait. That doesn’t work. I don’t want to bet against you, Molly, but we can’t both bet for you. Tell you what we can do instead. You solve it, with or without my help, and I’ll take you out to the best restaurant around.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “That sounds like you don’t get anything either way.”

“Ah, not true, Molly. I get the pleasure of dining with you.” He turned his warm eyes upon her, strangely serious. She turned a pleased pink and preened a little. Sometimes, he could be incredibly charming. “Now,” he said, “tell me what you know.”

“Okay,” she said, referring to the booklet, “the old church was located on the bluffs, because this was a salt making centre in the Middle Ages and the cottages were out by the sea. Like this one, I suppose, but this is much newer. At some point it became an Anglican Church, so…around 1550? Anyway, as the bluffs eroded and the salt industry dried up, the village moved further inland. In 1830 they tore down the old church and rebuilt it nearer the village. The chalice went missing at that time. And then in 1872 they were going to make improvements to the church, but it was almost falling down anyway, so they razed it and built a new church on that site.”

“So, in the confusion of dismantling the church someone stole the chalice.”

“Right. The chief suspect was…I can’t believe they’re using this language…a Irish simpleton named… Sean O’Malley. He drowned himself, in, uh, 1830. Well, he was found floating in the river. The chalice was never found.”

“Anything about the vicar?”

“Umm, no.”

“Where do you want to start?”

“I almost hate to suggest this, but we could start by talking to…Carol and George.” She winced.

Sherlock barked out a laugh. “Whenever you’re up for it,” he said.

“Be honest, Sherlock. Do you already know what happened?”

He winked at her and refused to answer. 

“Sherlock!”

“Let’s go look at the stars,” he smiled, standing up and holding out his hand for her.

The next morning they got in the car and headed for Carol and George’s cottage in the village. Sherlock had called ahead to make sure it was okay they stop. Carol was delighted. The couple met them at the door.

“Oh, do come in!” Carol called. “I’ve so been looking forward to having you over!”

“Come in, come in, old chap,” echoed George. He ushered them into the sitting room, where tea had been laid out, including fresh baked tea cakes. “Delighted, what?”

“Now,” Carol said. “You sit there, dear. These are my Welsh tea cakes. Welsh, you understand. I got this recipe from my very good friend Anna Winship, who’s chair of our local WI, but mind, I altered it a smidgeon. Touch of cardamom. You still have to use half margarine and half butter. That’s key. Do sit down, dear.”

Molly and Sherlock sat down and were immediately deluged with plates, tea, cakes, fruit, and conversation. “This is very nice of you…Mrs. Brockhurst,” Molly began. “I’m so sorry about…last time. I wasn’t…erm…feeling well.”

“Oh, dear, really, you must call me Carol. And himself, that’s George. Don’t you even fret about last time,” Carol assured her, with a wave of her hand. “You poor thing. Of course you weren’t feeling well. Hospitals! Terrible places! My sister Kitty, last year when she had her hysterectomy she was completely flattened for three months! We call her Kitty because our little brother James couldn’t pronounce Katherine when he was a baby, isn’t that adorable? Anyway, flat out for three whole months with pains all up and down her stomach and hips, and a scar from here to there! She had a tumor in her uterus the size of a grapefruit! Can you imagine? The surgeon said it was such an interesting specimen he kept it. He has it in a jar on his desk. Do try some of these melon balls, they’re very juicy.”

Sherlock paled and delicately pushed his melon balls to the side of his plate.

“Anyway, dear,” she continued, “how are you feeling now?”

“Much better, thank you,” Molly smiled. “It’s…taking some time, but Sherlock has been so kind to me.” She rubbed his arm gently and glanced at him, gratefully. He ducked his head slightly, pleased, and took a sip of tea. “Erm, George,” Molly continued, “I remember you saying you studied local history?

“That’s right, young lady,” he answered.

“Well, what can you tell me about the missing gold chalice?”

“Ah, that’s a good one,” he said. “Everyone around here has their own theories about that one.”

“I understand the main suspect was an Irishman?” Molly prompted.

“Yes. Apparently he hung around when they were moving the church, did odd jobs for the vicar, caretaking and whatnot. Light in the head, you know,” George said, tapping his temple. “The story is he’d stolen it and then fell into the river in a drunken stupor, and it was lost. Danes Stream, it’s called. Runs along through town, past the new church and the vicarage. Personally, I think he drowned himself out of remorse.”

“I should think so!” Carol interjected. “Stealing from the church. It just isn’t done.”

“Quite,” George agreed, nodding. He took his pipe from his pocket, fiddling with it, hesitating. “Bad show, old girl.”

“Please do smoke if you like,” Molly urged. “I actually love the smell of tobacco. It was just last time we met it was a bit…too much. So, why did people think it was him? Couldn’t it have been anyone else?” she asked.

“Thanks, old girl,” George answered, lighting up. “Jolly good of you. Well, who else could it be? He had access to the church and likely needed the money.”

“Yes, but the vicar had access to the church, also,” Molly mused. Sherlock smiled into his tea.

“The vicar!” Carol shook her head. “By all reports he was a kind and saintly man. Horatio Miles. His parishioners adored him, poor man.”

“Poor man? Why?” Molly asked.

“He died, tragically, just weeks after the chalice went missing.” Carol responded.

“Yes,” George said. “There was a terrible cholera epidemic in the 1830s. Killed thousands. Took both the vicar and his housekeeper. The vicar was still rather young when he died. He was a Trafalgar baby. There were so many babies born in 1806 named Horatio. Celebratory, you know.”

“How did the chalice come to the church? This is a modest parish to have a gold artifact,” Sherlock noted.

“It was a gift from the Bishop,” George explained. “For some personal service the previous vicar had provided. He brought it with him when he arrived, in 178… Nope. Can’t remember the year. Brain’s getting old, haha. Now, this is telling tales out of school,” he winked, “but lots of folks think it was because of the love that dare not speak its name. The Reverend Stour was a…beautiful man in his time. There’s a portrait of him down at the vicarage.”

“Lovers?” Molly breathed. “This is getting interesting.”

“I never heard that story, George, and that’s a fact,” Carol insisted. “You’ve made that up.”

George bristled. “It’s common knowledge down at the Bells, old girl.”

“Yes, filth spread by that wastrel Harry McGregor, who’s part of your ‘history club’. He believes Princess Di was murdered by a drug cartel backed by Lord Sugar,” Carol informed them. “He lives in cloud cuckoo land,” she nodded, sipping her tea with a knowing look.

“Well,” George said, defensively, “he has some interesting theories.”

“Including a selkie that lives out by our cottage,” Carol added, snidely. “What rot.”

“I say, it could have happened,” George said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Carol snorted.

“So, let me get this straight,” Molly said, anxious to avoid a marital spat over mythological creatures and Harry McGregor’s theories. “Reverend Miles arrived in…?”

“1824,” George supplied.

“And when did the Irishman arrive?”

“1828, or thereabouts. Hard to say, you know. Came and went. He worked on the dismantling of the church. He was a stone mason over in Ireland before he was run off,” George added.

“Run off?” Sherlock asked.

“Aye,” George said. “He was run out of his country in Ireland. For stealing, old chap.” He smiled, his point proven.

“And the chalice had already been in the old church since the 1780s,” Molly mused. “In 1830 the old church was torn down and rebuilt closer to the new village. The chalice went missing then. The Irishman dies, and a few weeks later the Reverend Miles dies. Correct?”

“Yes. You’ve got it, young lady,” George smiled.

“We came over the stream on our way here,” Molly said. “How could anyone drown in that little thing? It’s barely a trickle.”

“Ah, well, you see,” George answered, “it used to be much wider two hundred years ago. It’s been filling in. Besides, Irish, you know. Wandered around drunkenly half the time, no doubt.”

“Oh, okay.” Molly said. “And there was no one else…wandering around at that time? No one else who could have taken it and escaped?”

“Not that anyone recalls seeing. There was something about an inquiry, can’t quite recall. You could check with our current vicar. He’s Wilbur Smythe. Nice chap, old Smythe. He’d have access to the old records. The vicarage is that rambling cottage across from the new church.”

Molly scratched her head. “And why don’t people think the vicar took it?”

“Saintly man,” Carol reminded her. “He gave that thieving Irishman work out of the goodness of his heart. Look how he was repaid.”

“Mmm,” Molly said, thinking. The talk slowly turned to other topics, mostly about the cottage garden and the advice Anna Winship had given Carol for pruning the peonies and lilacs. Finally, Molly and Sherlock had to leave. They stood up, gathering themselves together.

“Oh!” Carol said. “I almost forgot.” She bustled into her kitchen and brought out a plastic container. “It’s my coronation chicken for you, just as I promised, dear. My dear friend Anna Winship got the recipe from Lady Gertrude Sedgwick, who was a lady-in-waiting to the Queen during the coronation. And there’s a little pot of jam I made last fall from our plums out back. I do hope you enjoy.”

“This is lovely of you, Carol,” Molly gushed, handing it all to Sherlock. “Thank you so much for everything. You’ve been very kind.” She kissed Carol on the cheek, then George, causing him to sputter and turn red, pleased.

“Hands off my hubby,” Carol laughed, waving goodbye.

“I say, old chap,” George said to Sherlock, “you’ve simply got to give me a spin in that Jag one of these days. Gorgeous car, what?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Sherlock responded with a smile, shaking his hand. _It will be a cold day in hell before that happens_ , he thought.

Safely in the car, Sherlock observed, “you have both of them wrapped around your little finger.”

“My mum always said, ‘you draw more flies with honey,’” she said.

“Than what?” he asked, puzzled.

“Than acting like Sherlock Holmes,” she laughed.

“Your mum never said that. That’s not a…thing,” he protested.

“Well, she should have. Anyway, George and Carol are nice,” Molly said. “Plus, I got us dinner,” she grinned. “Non-burnt food.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you? Where to next, Detective Inspector Hooper?”

“I’d like to drive out to the bluffs to see the site of the old church. Do you mind?”

“Chuffed, old bean,” Sherlock responded with a grin, in his best imitation of George.

Molly snorted as Sherlock put the car in gear. “He’s adorable,” she said. “Bit dim, but cute.”

“You think everyone is cute,” he mock grumbled.

“You think everyone is dim,” she laughed.

Thirty minutes later they were back home. Sherlock tucked the chicken into the fridge whilst Molly sank down in a chair, exhausted.

“That was a bust,” Molly complained. “Just an old churchyard.”

“What, were you expecting a sign that said, ‘dig here’?” he grinned, throwing himself into his chair. “An X marking the spot?”

“No, l guess not,” she sighed. “But it would have been helpful. It was very pretty though, wasn’t it? Sad, too. Those lonely graves out by the sea. It was so quiet out there. Just the sound of the waves. There was something very…eternal about it. Nice, and a bit scary, all that waiting…emptiness.” 

“Mmm,” Sherlock rumbled, thinking, steepling his fingers. There was a small silence. “It is different here,” he said. “All this space brings up…voices inside that are usually covered up by doing, you know?”

“Yes! Exactly. I don’t really mind hearing them though. Right now. Do you?”

“Not really,” he responded. “Not forever, though. It’s good to have time and space to think, to re-evaluate…things.”

“Yeah. Sherlock, do you think the chalice is still…around?”

“I know it is,” he responded, smugly.

“Where? No, don’t tell me. I want to figure this out myself.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, amused. “What are you thinking?”

“Well,” she began, turning towards him. “I don’t know about the Irishman. That seems too…convenient. Too neat. Everyone was suspicious of the Irish back then. Plus, if he was Catholic he most likely believed he’d burn in Hell for doing something like that. That’s a powerful deterrent. Despite Harry McGregor’s interesting...theories, I’m not sure.” Sherlock nodded. “I want to find out more about the vicar. Maybe next we could visit the new church and the vicarage?”

“Sounds like a plan,” he agreed. “Tomorrow?”

She nodded. “Or the day after. I’m going to take a nap. I’m not used to all this running around and I’m rather knackered, old chap.” She grinned.

“Pip, pip, old girl,” Sherlock chuckled.

That afternoon, whilst she napped, Sherlock had a panic attack so he left the cottage and wandered in the hills until it dissipated, which took more than two hours. It put him in a grumpy, subdued mood, which Molly commented on when he got back. He diverted her concern with a comment about a slight headache, hoping that his dissembling would mislead her. He wondered how long he would be able to keep up this sham.

*****


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Two days later Sherlock and Molly got in the car and headed into town. They had an appointment with the vicar at 11 am. The Reverend Wilbur Smythe was a tall, mild, bookish, bird-like man in his mid-40s who had a habit of pulling on his earlobe when he was thinking. He showed them into his study and listened to their request for any information about the gold chalice before breaking into a smile.

“I’m happy to help. I know of you, of course, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “I’m quite a fan of your blog. I was very impressed with the case of The Aluminum Crutch. And The Speckled Blonde. Amazing stuff. I fancy myself an amateur detective,” he chuckled, modestly. “Nothing in your league, though. I didn’t realize you were married,” he finished, turning warm eyes on Molly, who blushed.

“Oh, we’re not…together,” Sherlock responded. “We’re just friends. But it’s kind of you to compliment my work, Reverend Smythe. Although you should know that my blog is written by Dr. John Watson, a valuable friend. I just solve the crimes; he writes about them. Makes them more interesting than they are, really. Today, however, I’m just tagging along whilst Dr. Hooper investigates.” He smiled at Molly, turning the interview over to her.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Molly said. “I’ve been convalescing in Carol and George Brockhurst’s cottage out by the sea, and Sherlock has been helping me.”

“On the mend, then?” The vicar inquired, kindly. Molly nodded. “It’s quite different from London here, isn’t it?”

“Yes, thanks,” she answered. “It’s like two different worlds. The sea air is wonderful, and the village is very quiet and restful. You must love it here.”

“I do,” he said. “I’ve been in this parish almost 25 years now. The people are mostly kind, relatively reasonable, and try to be good. It’s hard to ask for more than that. We have very little crime, or occasions for sleuthing. The closest thing we’ve had to a mystery was last year, when Bill Anderson’s entire flock of sheep went missing in the middle of the morning. He has a smallholding in the valley nearer to Everton, only about a dozen sheep. Quite the to-do. Turns out his neighbor’s eager new border collie had herded them into his cottage by himself through the dog door. The owner found them milling around his kitchen when he got back from work.” He laughed. “That was the biggest stumper we’ve had, so you can see our chalice mystery gets quite a work out,” he smiled. “Folks here create a lot of stories for entertainment. Sometimes they even believe them.”

“Yes, we heard some of Harry McGregor’s ideas,” Molly laughed. The vicar smiled, knowingly. “Anyway, I ran across the story of the chalice in a guidebook and thought I might have a go at solving it. I know all the basics, but I wondered if you could tell me anything else. For example, was this the vicarage back then?”

“Mostly,” Smythe said. “Let me show you around whilst we talk.” He rose and began showing them the house. “Down this hallway is a nice portrait of Reverend Stour, who brought the chalice to the church. Handsome fellow, yes?” A fair haired, elegant man gazed back at them from the wall, large, dreamy eyes, fine featured, a hint of a secret in the line of his mouth.

“He’s…beautiful,” Molly said.

“Yes, he was. Youngest son in a long line of boys,” Smythe explained. “The eldest inherited, of course, and the rest were shipped off around the world to run plantations or became clergy.”

“Is there one of Reverend Miles?” Molly asked, looking at other portraits adorning the walls.

“Yes,” Smythe said, pointing out a smaller painting. “Here he is.” Horatio Miles had dark hair with eyes to match, a thin mouth, and a kindly, plump face. There was a frill of lace at his collar.

Molly studied him to see if she could locate any signs of saintliness or avarice in his countenance. She shrugged finally, not able to tell. “Unremarkable,” she decided.

“Now,” Smythe continued, “the original cottage was built in the late 1500s, so it’s half timber. All that’s left is a main fireplace and what used to be the kitchen, but we use it now as an informal sitting room. There was an addition made in the mid 1700s, which created the new kitchen, another sitting room, and two bedrooms. That’s the Neo-classical portion of the house. They took down part of the original cottage at that time. The last addition was made in the early part of the last century, 1924, I believe, adding a partial second floor with three more rooms and the large garden shed.”

“Gosh,” Molly said. “It’s positively labyrinthian, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” the Reverend chuckled. “It’s rather a mish mash of architectural styles, as you can see, but that’s part of its appeal. And of course it’s been updated over the years, with plumbing, electricity, and recently, central heating. These old houses require a lot of upkeep, but the villagers are so fond of it and it has such charm it would be a shame to tear it down and start over. Everyone learns to work with the idiosyncrasies.” He led them into the original part of the cottage, where an older woman was sitting by the unlit fire, knitting. “And this is Louise Swift, my housekeeper. She’s a treasure. It falls to her to keep up this monstrous place. I’d be lost without her.”

Louise glanced up from her knitting and gave them a friendly nod in greeting. “Cup of tea?” she asked, peering at them over her glasses.

“Oh, no, we don’t want to interrupt you,” Molly was quick to say. “We’re just admiring your lovely house. What are you knitting?”

“Bless you, dear, for asking. This is going to be a shawl for old Maisie Winterbaum. She’s getting a bit frail now, and could use the extra warmth. She’s our oldest parishioner. She’ll be 97 this summer. Still comes to church every week. Such a lamb.”

“What did I tell you? A treasure. True Christian spirit.” Smythe looked at her with affection.

“What kind of idiosyncrasies do you find in the house?” Sherlock asked her.

“Oh, honey, creaking, tilted floors, tiny windows, leaks, that sort of thing. The plumbing is…eccentric to say the least. And the draught in the fireplace is something I’ve never seen before,” Louise said. “Roaring one day, can barely stay lit the next. It’s got a personality of its own. Still,” she chuckled, “I reckon if I was 400 years old I’d be persnickety, too.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock nodded, stepping closer to look up the chimney. 

“It’s amazing seeing this original half-timber architecture,” Molly said, admiring the room. “Those two beams flanking the fireplace are enormous!” 

“Aren’t they phenomenal?” Smythe agreed. “English Oak. Built to last centuries. They’re nearly half a meter wide, and, as you can see, stretch from the floor nearly to the ceiling. That’s nearly three meters. I can’t begin to imagine how much they weigh! Its incredible to think those trees were alive during the Norman conquest a thousand years ago. The things they’ve seen,” he said, thoughtfully. “The Magna Carta, the War of the Roses, kings and queens, the Reformation, countless human lives all came and went whilst these giants lived. I like to think about them. They put life into perspective.” He rubbed one fondly with the palm of his hand. The dark, smooth wood glowed with centuries of smoky patina and careful polishing.

“I’m not…very familiar with the dissolution of the monasteries,” Molly admitted. “That’s part of our history I haven’t paid much attention to. So, when this cottage was built, was this a Catholic region?”

“Bit difficult to say,” the vicar said with a shrug. “Certainly the original church out by the dunes was Catholic, but by the time it was moved in 1830 it had been Anglican for well over two hundred years. I would imagine this area had both Catholic and Anglican parishioners, so it’s possible either way.”

“But it’s always been a vicarage?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Smythe said. “Remember the village was originally two miles south of here, nearer the sea. The Anglican Church acquired this property well before the old church was moved, as the dissolution spread across England. It must have been one of the nicest cottages in this part of the village. But it’s certainly been a vicarage at least for the better part of three hundred years. Let me show you the garden. I spend a great deal of my time out here. It’s rather pleasant.” He opened the back door, ushering them out to a lovely park, where a narrow stream flowed past. A few ducks paddled in the water, quacking happily.

“Is that Danes Stream?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. The name’s a throwback to the Vikings, of course. And that’s where poor Sean O’Malley died, according to the story,” Smythe said, pointing. “It used to be much wider. See that line of willows over there? That’s where the old bank used to be. It was a good sized river, two hundred years ago. Still, it’s nice to sit here in the shade on a summer evening, after prayers, and listen to it burble. Very…centering.”

“You mean he died right here? Right by the vicarage?” Molly asked.

“Oh, yes,” Smythe responded. “He was a caretaker at the old church, just across the way. Of course, the new church is in that site now. You can see the spire from here, just beyond our prized Wych Elm. So few of those wonderful trees left now. Very sad.”

“Gosh,” Molly observed. “It’s so…idyllic here. It’s like a dream, it’s so pretty. You’ve done wonders with the garden.” 

The vicar looked pleased at her compliment. “I can’t take all the credit,” he said, modestly. “Mrs. Winship, Carol Brockhurst and the ladies from the WI work hard here, all year. Planting bulbs, pruning, weeding, you know. I just sort of keep it going in between their visits. I like to encourage the parishioners to think of this house as theirs.”

“Well, it’s lovely. Have people looked for the chalice?” she inquired.

“Have they looked!” The vicar laughed. “That stream was dredged dozens of times, and this park has been dug up I don’t know how often. Twenty years ago one of the villagers even came out here and started turning the earth, convinced he was going to find it. I had to stop him from digging up the garden entirely. That’s when I found out about the mystery. No, the chalice was probably swept out to sea.”

“Or maybe Mr. O’Malley never had it in the first place,” Molly mused. “Or he buried it someplace else, or sold it.”

“Those are certainly possibilities,” Smythe said. “What are your thoughts on the matter, Mr. Holmes?”

“Oh, too soon to tell,” Sherlock hedged. “Are there any things in the new church from that time?”

“Well,” The vicar said, thoughtfully. “I mean, there’s old documents, the parish records, stuff like that. Not much call for those things these days. Would you like to see those?”

“Gosh, yes!” Molly said, eagerly. “Can we do that now?”

“Certainly,” Smythe said. “Let me just grab my other key ring. I’ll meet you there. You can just cut around the cottage here and cross the road.”

Sherlock offered Molly his arm as they wandered through the garden to the church of All Saints. It was a large gothic revival building of red brick, with a slate roof and stone banding, based on a 13th century design. The architecture was a nod to the original old church out on the bluffs. A carved stone roundel held pride of place above the arched double front doors. 

They waited outside for a few minutes enjoying the sun until the vicar trotted up and they all went inside together. He led them through the sanctuary towards the office. It was a modest church, with a vaulted dark wooden ceiling, whitewashed walls, and a double row of pews. Three windows along each side showed off stained glass, with a graduated triptych of stained glass over the altar. Inside the small office, a young woman was stuffing envelopes.

“Oh, hello, Dottie,” Smythe said. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”

“Yes, sir,” she responded. “I just wanted to get this mailing done before Sunday. Hello,” she said, nodding to Molly and Sherlock.

“Dottie, I’d like you to meet the incomparable Sherlock Holmes, and his associate, Dr. Molly Hooper.” The girl smiled blankly. She clearly had never heard of him before. “He’s a detective,” Smythe continued. “They’re going to give us a hand with the chalice mystery.”

The girl snorted. “Good luck,” she said, dismissively. “That thing was melted down years ago.”

“How can you be sure?” Molly asked.

“Oh, my aunt did a reading on it years ago. She’s a psychic. She knows things. She saw it, clear as day, near flames. So obviously it was melted down.”

Reverend Smythe rolled his eyes behind her back. “Anyway, I’ve got to get into the crawl space,” he said, starting to move a file cabinet aside. Sherlock sprang over to help him. Behind it was a half door, which the vicar unlocked, wrestling with it a bit because the lock was sticky. He swung the door open and peered inside. “Get me a torch, will you, Dottie? Nobody’s been in here in ages,” he told Sherlock. The girl got up and went into the supply cabinet, pulled out a torch and handed it to him. “Now, let’s see what we have,” he muttered, starting to crawl in. 

“Allow me,” Sherlock said, reaching for the light. “I don’t mind getting grubby, and you’ve got your nice suit on. Plus, there are probably spiders.” The vicar acquiesced with a small, thankful bow. 

Molly shuddered. She sat down on a spare chair, feeling a bit fatigued. “I hate spiders,” she told Dottie, who nodded adamantly.

“Me, too. And I hate having that dank, creepy hole behind me every day,” the girl whispered, conspiratorially. “I know it’s locked and there’s nothing…nasty in there, but still. That’s why I put the filing cabinet there.”

“What am I looking for?” Sherlock called.

“On your left are the church ledgers,” the vicar explained. “Arranged by year.”

“Oh, right,” Sherlock said, running his eyes down the row of books. “Okay, here’s 1825 through through...1840.” He pulled it. “What are these other books on the right?”

“Those are the vicar logs. They’re like diaries, but not so personal.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said, turning the torch in that direction. He searched the spines for a few minutes, sweeping aside some cobwebs and dust. “Ah! Here it is!” He pulled out the log for H. Miles, 1830, and backed out of the closet. He stamped his feet and brushed himself off, coughing a little. “It would be incredibly helpful if we could take these with us for a little while,” he said. “It’s been a long day and Moll—, Dr. Hooper is getting tired. We’ll take very good care of them.” He flashed his most agreeable smile.

“Oh, that would be lovely!” Molly added. “I am feeling a bit exhausted.”

Smythe bobbed his head back and forth, thinking. “I don’t see why that would be a problem. If you promise to bring them back in good shape. It’s not like anyone is going to want them over the next week. Go ahead.”

“Thank you very much,” Molly said, gratefully. “I appreciate it. I’ll guard them with my life.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Smythe chuckled. “You’re more important than some old books.”

“Oh!” Molly said. “One more question and then we’ll leave you alone. George Brockhurst said there might have been an inquiry at that time? Do you know anything about that? Are there transcripts anywhere?”

“If there was, the constable might know. Ask for Tuppy Havershaw at the station. He knows all that stuff and can point you in the right direction. Don’t get your hopes up, though. There was a fire around 1900 and a lot of court records were lost.”

“Tuppy?” Sherlock asked, with a raised eyebrow.

“Eton,” Smythe answered, chuckling. “Grandson of the old lord. I’ll tell him you might look him up.”

“Well, we’ll check,” Molly said. “It was so nice to meet you, Reverend Smythe. Thank you very much for all your help. Very kind of you. It’s been fascinating.”

“My pleasure. Let me know if you come up with anything, and don’t over exert yourself, Dr. Hooper. You’ll be right as rain in no time,” he smiled, walking them out to their car. “This is the best place for all kinds of healing. Body, mind, and spirit.” He waved and headed back to the vicarage.

“Do you think they’re all talking about us behind our backs?” Sherlock asked, with a grin.

“I can’t imagine why you think so,” she laughed. “It’s not like they’re all staring and saying very pointed things. What a nice man, the Reverend, though. He was so…gentle.”

“So, old girl, are you up for a bite at the pub?” he said, starting the engine. “It’s half one already.”

“Yes,” she answered. “I’m starving!”

They entered the pub, found a table, and ordered fish and chips. Sherlock went to the bar and procured two pints. Casually, he asked the barkeep if he knew anything about a selkie living out by their cottage.

“Harry!” The barkeep shouted towards a group of men in the corner. “This gentleman wants to hear about your selkie!”

A man in his mid-30s with a scraggly fisherman’s beard popped out from a crowd of men arguing around the dart board. “Right-o!” he answered. 

“Tell ‘em about Lord Sugar!” someone yelled. A raucous laugh went around the tables.

“Fuck off!” Harry hollered back, good-naturedly. He joined Molly and Sherlock at their table, eyeing their pints. He wore his blonde hair long and shaggy, with a fringe that kept falling across his piercing green eyes. It was bleached white on top from the sun and sea, and his skin was tanned from working outdoors. He wore worn jeans, boots, and a thick, knitted jumper. He wiped his mouth. “That’s some tale,” he said. “I can work up a powerful thirst telling it. Harry McGregor,” he said, extending a rough hand and sitting down.

Sherlock took it and introduced themselves. He slid his pint over to Harry and signaled to the barkeep to bring another. “Want some fish and chips, too?”

“Nah, thanks, mate. This’ll do. For starters.” He grinned and downed the pint in one go before looking Sherlock and Molly up and down. “From London, are you?” They nodded. “Thought so. You’re staying out in George’s cottage?”

“Clearly,” said Sherlock. Something about this man annoyed him.

“Yeah, can’t pull anything over on me,” Harry said. “George told me to keep an eye out for a posh couple.” He snickered. “You two are about as grand as we get in these parts. So, you want to hear about that selkie?”

“Why do you think there’s a selkie?” Molly asked, doubtfully. Harry turned towards her, boldly ran his eyes over her figure, and gave her a big smile. The gleam of a gold tooth gave him a rakish grin. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to tidy it, and sat up a little straighter. Sherlock hid a smile.

“Seen her myself, I have,” Harry responded, with a firm nod. He was looking at Molly like a starving man. “‘Twas eight years ago this July. I was, uh, fishing, out by the point there, round about midnight. There was a beautiful full moon shining on the water and the sea was as calm as glass.” He spread his hands slowly in a practiced gesture, like a good story-teller, painting a picture of the moon-bright sea.

“Fishing? At midnight?” Sherlock interjected with a frown, not liking the way the man was ogling Molly. 

She leaned forward, flipped her ponytail over her shoulder, and gave Harry an encouraging smile. “I’m sure lots of people fish at night,” she offered.

“Right you are, Miss,” Harry said, agreeably. “The bass fishing in the bay at night is very good. I had just come around Hengistbury Head, past Highcliffe Castle, and stopped in the bay off Milford, so I could see your cottage on the bluff there. I’d just put me flask away, having had a few nips.”

Sherlock and Molly shared a discrete glance, but were noticed.

“Now, now,” Harry continued. “Nothing wrong with that. Have to guard a bit against the chill, don’t you know. If you’d ever been out on the water at night, you’d understand how the wind cuts through you. You’d like it out there, Miss,” he nodded. “I’d love to show you sometime.”

“That would be nice,” Molly answered, batting her lashes, seemingly mesmerized by Harry’s rugged, cocky masculinity. Sherlock gave her a perplexed look. What was she doing? He sat back and crossed his arms, patiently waiting until he could clip this guy’s wings. “So,” Molly pressed, “the sea was calm?”

“Ah, yes, so it was,” Harry continued, snagging Sherlock’s pint that arrived at the table along with their food. “Calm as glass, Miss. It was a breathless night, not a stir of wind. And then I saw her!” He took a sip, pausing for effect, looking at them significantly. It was apparent he’d told this story once or twice before to rapt audiences, usually men. “She rose up out of the water like Aphrodite herself and dropped her seal skin on the sand. I could see her plain as day. Naked as a baby, she was, with her long, sleek hair flowing down her back. The moonlight shone on her, highlighting…ahem, everything, and I swear I never seen anything so beautiful in my life. I mean, her tits were dripping with water and they were so big and perky, I never…” he trailed off, throwing an embarrassed glance at Molly. He lowered his eyes and hands, which had been making indelicate motions. “Well,” he mumbled. “She was very pretty. Not of this world, if you take my meaning.”

“What did she do next?” Molly asked, her eyes big as she munched her chips.

“Well, she walked up and down the beach for a bit, looking wistfully, I would say, at the cottage. Your cottage. She must have had a lover there, years before, and was missing the poor, dead man. Then, quick as a flash, she picked up her seal skin and returned to the sea. I know it was her because a few minutes later a seal popped up off my stern. She gave me a little smile, and with a splash, flipped away and was gone. My hair stood on end, I swear to god.”

“I can imagine!” Molly said.

“Hogwash,” Sherlock laughed. Molly kicked him under the table.

“Ah, mate, you weren’t there. You don’t know. If you make your living on the water, you see strange things,” Harry nodded, perfectly serious. “There’s all kinds of odd creatures down in the depths.”

“Well, that’s just…amazing,” Molly said, pretending to believe him. “Say, Harry…I may call you Harry?” He nodded, flattered. “What do you think about the chalice mystery?”

“Oh, I know what happened there,” he said, smugly. “Everyone thinks that Irishman stole it and drowned himself down by the vicarage.” He signaled for another pint.

“Is that not what happened?” she frowned.

“Fuck, no. Oh, excuse me, Miss. Heck no. What really happened is the vicar stole it and pinned it on O’Malley. O’Malley must have seen or found out, and he threatened to tell, so the vicar bashed his head in and dumped him in the stream.”

“What?” Molly said, taken aback.

“Sure thing,” Harry nodded. “Everybody wanted to believe it was O’Malley because he was Irish. They hate the Irish ‘round here only a little less than they hate the French.”

“But, I thought the vicar was a saintly man.” Molly countered. “He wouldn’t have done it.”

“They’re the ones you gotta watch out for,” Harry said, sagely. “Nobody’s that good.”

“How do you know this? Can you prove it?” Sherlock asked.

“Nope,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair and draining his third pint. “But why did they never find it? They were out there, all day and night, and for years after, dredging that stream. Gold’s heavy, doesn’t float, a chalice that big wouldn’t have moved far, not in that wide, weak current. Maybe it was never found because it was never in the stream in the first place.”

“Why would the vicar do that?” Molly said. “He had a decent living, didn’t need the money.”

“Why does anyone do anything?” Harry shrugged. “If we could figure that out, we could predict the future.”

“So where is it now?” Molly asked.

“Ah, if I knew, I wouldn’t have to go to sea to keep me soul alive,” he smiled.

“Harry! You’re up!” One of the lads at the dart board yelled.

“Right. Duty calls,” Harry said, wiping the foam off his lip and standing up. “Thanks for the pints, mate.” He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. “And let me know if you’d like that boat ride in the moonlight, Miss,” he finished, cocking a pair of finger guns at her. 

“You’ll be the first to know,” Molly said sweetly, lowering her eyes. Harry went back to the darts game whilst Sherlock angrily scraped back his chair, went to the bar, and paid the bill.

“So,” he told her on the way out, taking her arm, “a horny, drunken fisherman sees some random woman skinny dipping and suddenly she’s some kind of ethereal goddess. Right.” 

“I’m not sure I can believe anything that man said,” Molly laughed. “He was full of it. Entertaining, though. And kinda cute, in a scruffy way.”

Settling into the car, Sherlock glared at her.

“What?” Molly said, confused.

“You…flirted with him.” His ears were a bit pink, but his voice was firm. And irritated. 

Molly burst out laughing. “Oh, Sherlock! Poor baby. Don’t be jealous. Every woman knows that a man will tell you everything if you flirt with him. They can’t help it.”

“I’m not…jealous,” he muttered, punching the accelerator aggressively. Molly continued to giggle.

*****


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Later that night, after a restful nap and a light dinner, Molly sat down and opened up the church ledger. “This looks boring,” she commented. “I’m so glad I never went into accounting. Deadly, and not in a good way.” Sherlock snorted with amusement. He was slouched in his chair, reading a volume on Apiculture he’d found in the bookshelves.

Molly turned her attention to the ledger. Page after page of spidery, handwritten entries detailing the income and expenditures of the church filled the book, now brown and foxed from age. Each collection plate, each minuscule tithe and donation, each withdrawal from the church coffers to pay salaries, building maintenance, and the greengrocer alike. Pennies and pounds, amassed and spent over the years, all carefully noted.

Molly flipped quickly through the pages until she reached 1829. The number of entries in the credit column had doubled. There appeared to be a great number of donations. “Of course!” she said. “They were going to move the church, which must have been an expensive proposition. The Reverend Miles was doing some hefty fund raising.” She flipped a page back and forth, a frown creasing her brow. She peered closely at the spine of the ledger. “Sherlock, look at this. A page is missing.”

He came over and looked, running his finger down the center of the pages. “Two pages,” he said. They’ve been cut out. You can barely see the slice, but the dates jump. Now, why would someone do that?”

“To cover up something, clearly,” Molly nodded. “Maybe someone was siphoning money from the church?”

“Bad show, old girl,” Sherlock said, grinning. “Stealing from the church. It simply isn’t done!” 

“Who had access to this ledger, do you think?” Molly pondered.

“Well, the handwriting changes in…1826,” Sherlock noted, flipping through the book, “and again after the missing pages.”

“It changes with each new vicar! The vicar kept the books?”

“Don’t see why not,” Sherlock said. “It’s a small parish church. It’s not likely they had an accountant on staff. The vicar probably did everything, including sweeping up after services.”

“So Reverend Miles was covering up his theft.”

“Looks like. Good find, Molly!”

She was pleased at his compliment. “Maybe he had a gambling problem. He certainly had expensive tastes. Remember that bit of lace on his collar in the portrait? None of the other ones had such finery. That might indicate a love of expensive things his living couldn’t provide. My friend Meena collects antique lace. It’s wildly expensive. Was back then, too. People went bankrupt buying lace.” She thought for a minute. “He could have stolen the chalice and was going to sell it to put back the money he’d taken, but died of cholera before he could do that. He’d have to travel out of the region to get rid of it, otherwise there would be talk.”

“Keep going,” Sherlock encouraged, nodding.

“So, I bet the chalice is hidden around here somewhere! It’s not been lost in the river. And Harry could have been right about poor Sean O’Malley. Killed because he knew. Or, he drunkenly fell into the river and drowned, not knowing anything at all. Harry McGregor is full of crap, but he may have one truth in him.” She thought for a minute. “Sherlock, I bet it’s still in the vicarage somewhere!”

He beamed at her, returning to his chair and picking up his book. “I knew you’d figure it out,” he said. “The question is, where?”

“I’m going to read his log. Maybe there’ll be a clue in it,” she said, putting the ledger aside and picking up the other book. Two hours later, she shut it in disgust. “There’s nothing here!” she complained. “It’s just notes about calling on the rich widow, or performing a marriage or baptism. Not a hint about money problems, although he does mention the chalice went missing. Listen: 

‘August 21st, 1830. Terrible news. Unpacking crates, can’t locate chalice. Will inquire of Sean O’Malley, who packed them.  
August 22nd. O’Malley denies any knowledge. Must inform Lord Havershaw.  
August 26th. Village sentiment growing against O’Malley. Troublesome.  
September 2nd. Formal Inquiry set.  
September 3rd. O’Malley drowned. God rest him.  
September 12th. Quite ill. Fear it’s mortal. God forgive my sins.’ 

“That’s the last entry.” She rubbed her eyes and huffed, sticking out her lower lip.

Sherlock peered at her from under his brows. “Want a hint?”

“No.” She shook her head, adamantly. Five minutes later, she sighed. “Yes.”

“Why don’t you try reading about the Reformation?” he suggested. “You know, when Henry VIII separated from Rome, started the Anglican Church and dissolved all the monasteries? Well, stole everything from the monasteries.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s history.”

“Yes. Your point?”

“You don’t know anything about history,” she said. “It’s monumental how much you don’t know. Why do you know about that?”

“When you figure this mystery out, you’ll know why I know.” He grinned.

“Goody!” she said. “Two for one!” She picked up her phone and began to google. They both read in comfortable silence. Several hours later she yawned and put down her phone. “This is fascinating, but I’m tired, Sherlock, and this stuff is pissing me off. I’m going to bed.”

“Mmm,” he rumbled, still engrossed in his book. “Molly, did you know that honey is the only food that provides all the enzymes and nutrients needed to sustain life?”

“No, I did not know that. Goodnight, Sherlock.” She kissed him on the forehead and headed to bed.

***

Molly wandered through darkened hallways, each leading to another, and another, and another. She was lost in a frightening labyrinth. Her phone was ringing somewhere. She needed to get the phone, it was important. She didn’t know why, she just knew it was. Something was going to happen, something huge, and she was trying to remember the trick for escaping a maze but her brain wasn’t working properly. Everything was tilted, sticky and threatening. The air felt thick and it was like moving through cold honey. She wanted to get out of the gray shadows but she had to answer the phone so she kept struggling, trying to go on. She managed another step.

Before she could find the phone something changed. She no longer felt alone, something was with her, helping her, filling her with warm strength. She could keep going. The hallways lightened and smoothed out. The ringing phone faded away. Molly relaxed, opened a door and stepped outside into the golden sunshine.

Sherlock reluctantly slipped out of Molly’s bed and returned to his own.

The next morning, he staggered blearily into the kitchen to find her eating a bowl of cold cereal. She looked snarly and irritated. He grabbed a cup of coffee and bravely sat down at the table with her, giving her a careful side-eye. 

She lifted the spoon to her mouth whilst appraising him. “If I ask you a question, Sherlock, will you answer truthfully?”

“Oh, god,” he mumbled. This might be the most dangerous situation he’d ever been in. “Of course, Molly,” he answered with a fake smile. “What would you like to know?” He raised the mug of hot coffee to his lips.

“Why are men such arseholes?”

The question took him by surprise and he burned his tongue. “Ow, um, what makes you ask?”

“Last night I was reading about how Henry VIII closed down all the monasteries and stole all their stuff, chucking all the priests and nuns out of service. The men were able to find other work, but the nuns weren’t released from their vows. They couldn’t marry, couldn’t work at anything, and if they didn’t have any family to help them they became destitute. Some were probably driven into prostitution. There were tens of thousands of them, basically killed by a horrible man who was angry because he couldn’t throw his wife away. He was a man.”

“Yeeess…” Sherlock slowly agreed, looking for a flaw in her logic. “He was a man.” He shrugged. “Listen, Molly, I can’t possibly account for all the shitty behavior men have inflicted on the world over the millennia.”

“Usually against women,” she muttered with a look of disgust.

“Why would they risk picking on someone bigger or more powerful than themselves?” he pointed out. “Women are a perfect target. It’s all just systemized bullying. I…I thought you were going to…”

“Mmm? Ask why you’re an arsehole?” She raised her eyebrows at him.

“Yes.” He ducked his head.

“Well, why are you?” Her voice was calm and gentle, there was no anger, only simple curiosity in her tone.

Sherlock looked at the floor and took a deep breath. “Because I only think of myself and what I want,” he said. “I force people into doing or saying things they don’t want to through a carefully constructed, manipulative series of words and gestures. I’m selfish, arrogant, abrupt, and cruel.” He stopped and risked a glance at her. Her mouth was hanging open. “Molly?” he asked, unsure what to say.

“Sherlock, you amaze me. That’s…so brave. I mean, I know you’re brave, you’ve thrown yourself into countless situations where you might die, and always for the benefit of someone else. But that was truly courageous. Thank you for taking that risk.” Her eyes were shining at him. It almost hurt how she looked at him. He shrugged, trying to brush it off. “No, really,” she continued. “Most people don’t know about their shadow selves. I do think you’re being a little hard on yourself, though. You’re not so bad, as men go.” She smiled at her thin compliment, trying to take the sting out of her words.

“At least I didn’t abolish god, unlike some men,” he joked, trying to distract her back to the topic, trying to assuage the uncomfortable nervousness roiling in the pit of his stomach.

“Exactly. That bastard stripped all those people of their religion. I’m not a big church person myself, and I know you’re not, but Meena is very religious. It’s a comforting practice for lots of people. It would kill her to have all that taken away so unfairly. At least there were some folks who tried to help. Did you know they had secret networks of traveling priests back then? This guy, he’d go around, giving mass to groups of people, and if he was in danger of being discovered, he’d take cover in this hidden cubbyhole thing in one of the local houses. They were often built near the firepl— Oh, my god…” she trailed off, her eyes growing bright.

“Yes?” Sherlock urged, smiling.

“There’s a priest hole in the vicarage!” Molly shouted, standing up and pointing her spoon at him.

*****


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Molly did a little victory dance around their kitchen, punching the air and chortling. Suddenly, she stopped. “What time is it?” she asked. 

“Half eight.”

“Crap! I’m getting dressed. You are too. And then I’m calling the vicarage.”

“Molly?”

“Yes?”

“You do know it’s Sunday, right?” Sherlock said.

“Oh, shit. What time does the service start?”

“Why would I know?”

“Get dressed!” she hollered. “Hurry!” They both jumped up and rushed into the loo at the same time. She looked at him, arching her eyebrows. Sherlock excused himself, backed out, and went into his bedroom to wait until she was done.

Dressed and ready to go, Molly rang the vicarage whilst Sherlock performed his morning ablutions and threw on some decent clothes. 

“Hordle vicarage,” a soft female voice answered.

“Ms. Swift, this is Molly Hooper. We met yesterday?”

“Ah, yes,” Louise responded. “Will this take long, dear? I’m just out the door. Services are starting any moment and I pump the organ.”

“Is anyone going to be there in half an hour? We’d like to poke around for a little while.”

“Tell you what. I’ll leave the back door unlatched. Will that suffice?”

“Yes, thank you,” Molly said. “That would be perfect.” She rang off.

Sherlock drove like a madman at Molly’s urging, whilst she impatiently bounced up and down the entire ride, screaming “faster!” at him. Once inside, she headed straight for the oldest room of the cottage. She started poking and pushing on the ancient beams flanking the fireplace. They didn’t budge.

“I know it’s here,” she said, stepping back, narrowing her eyes and rubbing her chin. Sherlock leaned against the table and watched her, his arms crossed, a huge smile on his face, her excitement giving him great satisfaction. She looked up and down at the beams. Dragging a chair over, she stood on it and pushed hard at the top of one beam. It moved, swinging out a tiny bit at the bottom. “There’s a pivot at the top!” she exclaimed with delight. “Grab that, Sherlock!” The beam was broad but not as deep as expected, cleverly lightening the weight and making it easy to move once the trick was discovered.

She pushed it again. He grabbed the bottom, pulling it up to reveal a narrow cubbyhole built into the side of the red brick fireplace. Molly jumped off the chair and squeezed into the small opening. She shouted with glee. Tucked into the back corner was the chalice, covered with dust, cobwebs, and a few ashes. She pulled it out, her eyes shining brightly.

“Hot damn!” she shouted, launching herself into his arms and wrapping her legs around his waist. She kissed him elatedly. Sherlock staggered at the unexpected-but-welcome onslaught, and quickly put his hands under her bum to support her before they both fell over.

“Congratulations,” he said, grinning at her. 

“What do we do now?” she asked, breathlessly, her arms still around his neck. She had a smudge of soot on her cheek.

“Oh, wait Molly,” he said, “hold still.” He shifted his hand, pulled something from her hair and threw it away, behind him. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” he muttered. 

Molly screamed, jumping out of his arms. “It was a spider! Eww! Ick! Blerg!” She whacked at the back of her head, shuddering, spinning around. “Are there any more?”

He laughed. “No. Behold the brave adventurer.”

She laughed at herself and held out the chalice, admiring it. “Look how dirty it is! Do you think it’s okay to wash it?”

“Don’t see why not.” Molly ran into the kitchen and rinsed the chalice off, carefully drying it with a soft towel. It gleamed, warm gold in her hands, heavy and substantial. “Molly,” he said, “let’s take it over to the church.”

“Now?” she said, aghast. “In the middle of the service?”

“What better time?” he urged. “Make an impact.”

“You just love being dramatic, don’t you?” she accused him. He nodded, grinning, his eyes daring her. “Okay!” she agreed. “Let’s go!”

They ran across the street, Molly holding the chalice, and opened the door. Pausing in the narthex, a little out of breath, they peeked into the sanctuary. The church was nearly full. Molly offered the chalice to Sherlock, who shook his head, turned her towards the congregation, and pushed her down the aisle. He hung back, uncharacteristically wanting to give the surprise, the glory of the reveal to another person. She took a deep breath, held the chalice in front of her, and began to walk towards the pulpit, where Reverend Smythe had just begun his sermon. Watching her, Sherlock surreptitiously wiped an eye, his heart bursting with pride.

She was about halfway down when a man jumped up, pointing at Molly. “FUCK ME!” he shouted.

Smythe stopped his sermon. “Harry McGregor! he thundered. “We don’t use that language in the house of the Lor—“ he stopped, seeing Molly with the chalice. 

“I beg your pardon, your honor,” Harry mumbled, blushing. He bowed and sat down.

Every eye in the congregation fastened on Molly. Jaws fell open, people gasped, and half of them stood up. One woman sagged against her husband, overcome with shock. 

Molly turned beet red, but kept walking. The chalice began to shake a little. She was entirely unused to this level of attention, but it felt so wonderful to be able to return this relic to its rightful, esteemed place within this lovely church. The garnets and carved decorations on the gold bowl caught the light, shining prettily. Smythe met her in the middle of the aisle, grinning from ear to ear. Molly handed him the chalice, and he held it up, turning it for everyone to see.

“It’s a fucking miracle,” he said, awed. “Where did you find it?”

Molly laughed, lightly. “In your home, Reverend.” He turned pale and his eyes grew enormous. “There’s a priest hole behind one of the beams of the old fireplace.”

“Excuse me, Dr. Hooper,” he said. “I need to sit down. Push over, Mr. Waltham, if you don’t mind.” The man on the end slid over, and Smythe shakily lowered himself into the pew.

“Unfortunately,” Molly said, “it means the Reverend Horatio Miles was a thief. He was stealing donation money from the church. There are pages missing in the ledger. He was probably going to take this to London and sell it, but he contracted cholera and died before he could do that. So, for nearly two hundred years, the chalice has been where he last hid it, and the secret of the priest hole died with him.”

Harry McGregor jumped up. “I knew it!” he yelled, punching the air. “I fucking knew it!”

“HARRY!” Smythe admonished.

“What?” Harry asked, innocently. “You just swore.”

“I did no such thing,” Smythe said. “I’ve never sworn in my life. Has anyone here ever heard me swear?” The congregation became deadly silent. “Now, young man, you will sit down and stop profaning in this church.”

“Excuse me, Reverend,” Mr. Waltham interjected. “Could it be passed around? Could we all see it?”

“Of course,” Smythe said, handing it to him. “Be careful with it.”

“Someone will want to keep an eye on it,” Mrs. Waltham said, nodding importantly. “Make sure it doesn’t go missing. Again.” The congregation laughed.

“One moment, please, my friends,” Smythe said, standing and holding his hand up in blessing. “Let us pray. Let us give thanks for this unexpected blessing. I remind you of the parable of the prodigal son, for what better story to illustrate how we have today experienced the blessed return of a lost member of our community. Let us be grateful for the beneficent workings of the Lord and for the smart, quick mind of Dr. Molly Hooper. May the peace of God be upon you all.”

Molly blushed, looked at Sherlock, and beckoned him to join her. “Thank you, Reverend,” she said. “But I did have a little help.”

“No, no,” Sherlock said, modestly, walking up to her side. “She did it all herself. She’s wonderful.” He looked at her with unabashed admiration. Molly blushed, looking overwhelmed but extremely pleased.

“Thank you both, so much,” Smythe said, shaking Sherlock’s hand and then Molly’s. “My friends, let us put the chalice on the altar, and I invite each of you to come up and admire it at your leisure. We shall sing a hymn, and then the service is over. I think we all need to…recover a bit. Let us sing, “Now Thank We All Our God.” Louise began to pump the organ, and the entire congregation rose and sang. Afterwards, Molly and Sherlock were surrounded by clusters of eager parishioners, all asking questions. She did her best to answer them whilst Sherlock looked on.

“I say, old girl,” George Brockhurst said, pushing through the crowd. “Jolly good show! Quite stunning, what?” Molly kissed his cheek, beaming. 

She could hear Carol behind her, telling someone, “those two are staying in my cottage. Can you believe it?”

At last the crowd thinned, and Sherlock could see Molly was tired. It was just after noon. By the time the vicar had locked the chalice up, they were served tea at the vicarage, and Molly had shown him the priest hole and repeated the story again, she was nearly wilting with exhaustion. Sherlock stood up and insisted they leave as Molly needed to rest.

“I can see why you love this,” Molly said, fanning herself as they got into their car. “It’s quite…heady. I can also understand why it might become addictive. That was a rush!”

“You did well,” he smiled warmly at her. “I’m impressed.”

“Really, Sherlock? That means a lot to me.” She seemed a little shy, now that the initial flush of success had faded. “Thank you for letting me have all the glory. I know what a sacrifice that was for you,” she teased, “but I am knackered. Let’s go home so I can have a nap. I want to be fresh for this evening.”

“What’s this evening?”

“Someone is taking me out to the best restaurant in the area,” she said, smugly. He grinned and started the engine.

*****


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

It was moving on towards mid-May and it had been raining steadily for five days. A bitter, gray fog rolling in from the sea transformed the view out the picture window into a misty, shifting dreamscape. They couldn’t go out; it was too wet, too raw and Sherlock didn’t want her to get chilled. He sat glumly in the sitting room, nursing a rapidly cooling cup of tea, staring out the window and sighing. He missed the thrill of London. It was too quiet here; there was too much space. The vast, silvery expanses of sea and sky, and the white noise of the constantly thrumming rain forced his thoughts deeper into himself, raising the shadows of his blurry childhood. 

The silence nibbled at him, bringing to mind old memories, long buried. They shifted and curled, thick and murky like the fog outside, and dissolved away as fast as they formed. He tried to concentrate, searching his mind palace to place the fleeting sensations, fragments of a forgotten past. Darkness, a soft pillow, sharp, hot pains, and a voice calling, _play with me, Sherlock_ , swirled through his mind. He felt his stomach tense, suddenly anxious, and shook his head to clear the feeling. No good. He couldn’t remember. The context wasn’t there. The fire crackled and popped, pulling him from his reflections. He stirred it with the poker and added another log.

Molly came in with a cup of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and sat down across from him on the sofa, gazing at him carefully. He look grim and unsettled. “Tuppence for your thoughts,” she said, softly.

Sherlock looked sideways at her, tilting his head and propping his jaw on his knuckles. “They’re not worth a ha’penny,” he sighed. “Come with me to the seaside, Molly,” he grumbled, as a peal of thunder broke across the sky and the cold, sheeting rain fell harder. “Soak up the sun. It’ll be fun. Sit around. Get better. Relax.” He heaved another sigh. “Jesus.” He slid down in his chair and growled. “Bored.”

Molly bit her lip, her large brown eyes widening, concerned that she was too much for him, too tedious, too mousey, too much work. He wasn’t enjoying her company. Maybe he wished he hadn’t brought her, maybe he missed London. She felt suddenly inadequate. “Do…do you want to go back to London?”

“No!” he bit out, immediately regretting his snappish tone.

“Then are you sorry you came?” She looked uncertain, hurt, and Sherlock felt disgusted by his own petulance.

“No! Not at all. I’m enjoying being here…with you. I want to be here.” He smiled at her. “It means a lot to me that you were willing…that you wanted to…come with me. I like being with you, Molly.” He looked down, fiddling with his fingers, feeling strangely awkward.

“I like being with you, too,” she smiled, taking a sip of her luscious chocolate, relieved and perversely enjoying his evident discomfiture. He liked her; he was just having trouble saying it.

“It’s the rain,” he said. “I’m feeling…trapped. No, claustrophobic. I’m not used to being stuck indoors.”

“The rain is cozy, but I’m tired of it, too. It’s so…incessant. Let’s distract ourselves. Look, Sherlock! Look what I can do.” She picked up the kilo weight they used for her physical therapy with her left hand, curled her fingers around it and slowly lifted it up to her shoulder. There was a wobble or two, but in general, she controlled the movement well. She beamed at him, proudly.

“Molly! That’s wonderful! You’re amazing!”

“I’ve been practicing outside of our sessions,” she confided. “Today’s the first day I can do it myself. It’s a start. I…never thought it would improve.”

“Can you do more?”

“A little.” She raised her arm with the weight in her hand out to the side, palm down. After a few seconds, it started shaking, and she had to lower it. “It’s pathetic, I know, but it made me happy. I didn’t want to say, but I was…worried it would be…permanent.” She glanced at him, biting her lip, feeling vulnerable.

The tender look on his face made her melt. “It’s not pathetic, Molly. It’s natural to be worried, and you’re the bravest woman I know. You should have told me how you felt,” he chided her, gently. “I never doubted for a moment.”

“I guess I’m not the only one keeping secrets.” She cast a meaningful glance at him from beneath her brows.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, innocently.

Molly laughed. “Uh-huh. Well, given that we’re stuck in here together, we’re going to have to entertain ourselves,” she said, getting up and moving over to the shelves. She started looking through the games. “What do we have… Cribbage?” He shook his head. “Monopoly?” 

He wrinkled his nose. “Do they have Cluedo?”

She turned towards him, fist on hip. “John told me years ago never to play that with you. Not only do you not understand the rules, you cheat.”

“I do not cheat!” he returned, affronted. “And the rules are wrong.”

“QED, I think,” she grinned. Sherlock snorted dismissively. Molly turned back towards the stack of games. “Anyway, they don’t have it. Ah! This one.” She extracted a board game from the pile and sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, her back against the sofa. Nodding at Sherlock to sit down and join her, she started unpacking the game.

Four hours and three pots of tea later, Sherlock was ready to pull out his hair. “You can’t attack Alaska from Kamchakta!” he shouted.

“There’s a connecting line! Right here!” Molly yelled back, pointing at the board. “I can!”

“If I’d known that I would have built up my armies in North America!” he said.

“I was wondering why you were trying to take over the world from Madagascar,” she scoffed. “Nobody does that.”

“Well, you’ve already got most of Europe and are starting to make incursions into Africa. I have to draw the line somewhere. You’re a regular Napoleon.”

“I’m surprised you even know who that is,” she said, laughing. 

“He was a short Frenchman who invented pastries. So there.”

Molly nearly choked on her tea. “I don’t know how you’ve gotten this far in life. Just admit it, Sherlock. I’m winning. I have the better head for strategy,” she finished with a gleeful cackle.

“I admit no such thing. Roll the damned dice,” he said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Prepare to lose.” They were so absorbed in their game neither of them noticed later that afternoon when the clouds broke and the rain stopped.

***

That night, Molly had another nightmare. Sherlock slipped into her bed as he usually did, quietly, so as not to wake her. He soothed her, softly stroking her hair. She murmured in her sleep, settling down at his touch. She felt so nice in his arms; they were warm and safe together. He closed his eyes for a moment, savouring her nearness. He had to leave in a few minutes, he reminded himself. In just a few minutes…

“Sherlock…” Molly’s voiced drifted into his pleasant dreams.

“Mmm,” he rumbled, enjoying the heat of her body under the sheets. She was sprawled across his chest, one of his arms was around her shoulder and the other one was laying on her lower back. He hugged her a little tighter.

“Sherlock!”

“Wha—“ he muttered, shaking his head and opening his eyes. It was still dark, the room was cast in pale moonlight, but he could hear the morning birds beginning to warble in the monkey puzzle tree.

“What are you doing in my bed?” she demanded, pushing off of him and sitting up. There was a small silence while he pondered the question.

“Oopsie,” he said, finally. “I…fell asleep, Molly. Sorry. I usually leave before you wake up.”

“Usually?” Her voice was a bit loud, and he winced. “Are you saying you’ve been here more than once?”

“Um, yep.”

“How many times?”

“About ten. Maybe more. Probably more.”

“Ten times? How could I not know this?” she asked, bewildered.

“Well, you were sleeping.” He seemed more amused than contrite.

“Yes, but—“

“Molly, do you know you have nightmares?”

“What?”

“Nightmares. Bad dreams.”

“Of course I know I have bad dreams!” she snapped. “That doesn’t explain why you’re sleeping with me.”

“Because when you have them, I slip over here and…comfort you until they go away. Then I go back to my own bed. Except last night I apparently fell asleep instead of leaving. Hence the oopsie.” He shrugged.

“I…I…I,” Molly worked her jaw but nothing coherent came out.

“I couldn’t leave you alone over here, thrashing and groaning, could I? You were, uh, keeping me awake,” he tried. “All I did was hold you and…stroke your hair. There wasn’t any…hanky panky, if that’s what you’re worried about. And might I remind you that you were the one draped all over me just now?”

“Well, damn,” she said. Sherlock couldn’t tell if she was astonished or disappointed. “That’s just the… sweetest thing I ever…Oh, Sherlock!” She smiled at him. “How kind you are! I mean, everyone knows you’re an idiot and all they see is the arrogance, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but I like it when you’re nice.”

He looked confused and relieved, trying to work out if that was a compliment or not. “Thanks, I think. Anyway, Molly, I was just trying to help…” he said. He started getting out of bed.

“Wait. Where are you going?”

“Back to my own bed,” he explained.

“Why?”

“What?”

“Well, now you’re here, you might as well stay.” She looked almost shy. “I mean, your bed is cold and all. Only if you want to, though.”

“Really?” She nodded. “Great,” he said, plumping up his pillow and lying back down, his arms over the duvet. After a moment he put both his arms under the duvet. Then he put one arm out and one under, and then switched. He sighed, baffled, as she watched him with amusement. “I don’t know what to do with my arms,” he said.

“I know what you can do with them,” she responded, laughing, laying down by his side. “Put them around me.” So he did.

*****


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Three nights later Sherlock awoke gasping for breath, the now familiar symptoms of a panic attack rapidly manifesting. It was four a.m. He got out of bed, went into his bedroom and scrabbled for his diazepam, swallowing two. He threw on his dressing gown and crept out to the sitting room. He didn’t want to wake Molly now that they were sleeping in the same bed. He’d managed to hide the other ones from her so far, and he trusted to luck to be able to continue. It might be tougher now, though, since they seemed to be getting closer, physically.

He sat on the sofa, trying to control his breathing as John had taught him, clutching his chest and willing his heart to stop pounding. His skin crawled; he felt like he was being stuck with pins. Shuddering and rubbing his arms to dispel the feeling, he realized he’d thought these attacks might dissipate in this different, calmer environment. No such luck, he admitted ruefully. Not site specific. 

What was even more horrible than the physical symptoms was the feeling of impending doom that permeated him during an attack. It was like he might implode from apprehension and fear. He was certain he was going to die, even though part of his mind knew he wasn’t. As many times as he told himself it was just a stress reaction and would pass, the other part of his mind kept insisting it was fatal. With a grim laugh, he realized the paradox would be funny if the damned things weren’t so terrifying.

By six a.m. Sherlock had fallen into a fitful sleep on the sofa, twitching and groaning from sharp, disturbing dreams. 

Molly woke up, thinking she’d heard a shout. Was that Sherlock? He wasn’t in their bed. She heard it again. Throwing on her dressing gown, which was actually one of Sherlock’s she’d confiscated, she crept across the hall and peeked into his bedroom. It was empty, so she went out to the sitting room to find him on the sofa. He didn’t hear her come out. She sat on the sofa next to his hip and gently placed her hand on his chest, waking him up. “Sherlock? Are you okay?”

Sherlock stirred and cracked his eyes open. His head was splitting and the light was too bright. “Oh, hi, Molly,” he managed, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I’m okay.”

“You don’t look okay,” she responded, putting her hand on his forehead. ”You’ve been shouting in your sleep. And you’re kind of warm.”

“I didn’t sleep very well last night,” he said. “Little headache. I’m fine.” He was not going to admit that his nerves were crushing him and he feared he might crack open and shatter into a thousand pieces right in front of her. He swallowed, covered his eyes with his hand, and unintentionally moaned.

“Oh, baby,” Molly whispered. She got up and drew the curtains, darkening the room, and fixed a damp flannel. Returning to him, she sat down by him, and had him put his head in her lap. She placed the cooling flannel on his forehead, stroking his temples, running her fingers through his hair, murmuring soothing words to him. He grabbed her hand, needing the touch of her, and held it tightly over his heart, forcing himself to breathe normally. He was trembling all over. She pulled the throw over him.

“Talk to me, Sherlock,” Molly said quietly. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

“I…I can’t.”

“This is no little headache,” she persevered. “This is something else.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m fine. It’ll…pass. Just…please...don’t fuss.”

“I’m not fussing,” she answered. “I’m trying to help you. Why don’t you trust me anymore?”

“I do trust you. I always have. It’s just…I don’t know what’s happening,” he lied, shivering.

Molly sighed. “I do,” she said. “I know what’s happening. Sherlock, do you think I haven’t noticed the diazepam you’ve been taking? The occasional muttering, gasping for breath, and the tremors? The groaning at night? Unless that’s something else maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about. Why are you hiding your panic attacks from me?”

He jumped up and started pacing. “How did you know about the pills?”

“I snoop through your room when you’re out exploring,” she said, amused. “Just like you snoop through mine when I’m having a bath.”

“God!” he shouted, aggravated at her sleuthing capabilities. Suddenly dizzy, he bent over, hands on his knees, and grunted. Standing up again and pacing some more, he took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, not wanting to scare her. “I…I didn’t want to bother you, Molly. You have a lot going on right now, trying to get well. My mental…aberrations aren’t something you should worry about. They’re not important.”

She gazed at him steadily. “Bullshit,” she snapped, her eyes narrowing.

He stopped pacing and looked at her, shocked into silence.

“Remember our commitment to mutual healing, Sherlock? Well, that requires trust and sharing. It’s a messy business, it takes risks. Here I’ve been, pissy and needy as hell this whole time, and you’re all ‘there’s nothing wrong with me’ when in actuality, your world has been turned upside down.”

“I’m doing okay,” he hedged. “You’re the one who needs help.”

“Might I remind you,” she continued, trying to keep her voice even, “I’m not the one having a panic attack right now. Listen, you recently discovered you have a sister who’s completely and murderously insane. You’ve blocked out large portions of your childhood. Your brother has been lying to you for decades. Your flat was blown up. You were held hostage in some horrible prison and forced to undergo god knows what. People were killed. Not that long ago Mary died and you had an epic relapse. Your best friend kicked the shit out of you. Someone you...possibly admit to liking was in a coma for two weeks and requires care you’re not used to providing. And for some reason you decided to come out here to the middle of nowhere to help her rehabilitate, leaving behind your beloved London and everyone who cares about you. Now, for most people, all that trauma would probably necessitate a lengthy stay in hospital, medications galore and years of therapy, but for the world’s greatest detective, it’s not important? I don’t think so.” 

He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “Stop being such a…man, Sherlock, and let yourself be human for a little while. Let me help you. But what do I know, right? I’m brain damaged, I’m the only one here who needs help.” Her voice was shaking by the time she got done with her speech, but she held her seat and glared at him.

Sherlock’s legs folded and he sat, heavily, on the floor in front of her. “Well, when you put it that way…” he conceded, looking sheepish. He snorted and glanced at her. “We’re a fine pair, aren’t we?” 

She smiled, slowly, and started to laugh, nodding. “Yes, we are. There’s nothing wrong with having your life turn to shit, Sherlock. It happens all the time. What you can’t do is ignore it when it happens. Now, get up here so I can give you a hug.” She patted the sofa.

He crawled up next to her and looked at her, adoringly. She wrapped her arms around him and held him close for a long time, gently rubbing his back. He clasped his hands together around her and heaved a relieved sigh, beginning to relax. For some reason, having her snap at him made him feel better. At least it was all out in the open. She was much braver than he was, he realized. She had no qualms about facing her demons.

After a while, Sherlock’s symptoms abated, and they slowly slid into a prone position on the sofa, Sherlock on his back, Molly tucked in by his side. Their hands met on his chest. He casually played with her fingers, sighing with contentment. 

“Molly?”

“Mmm?”

“How’d you get so wise?”

“Heartache, Sherlock. Enough heartache and you learn things.” She rested her chin on his chest. “After knowing you, I should be the wisest woman in England. Or at least have turned completely gray.”

Sherlock snorted with amusement. “Mycroft says I’m the reason he’s lost all his hair. He says he pulls it out because I’m so aggravating. Am I really that difficult?”

“Sherlock, you’re the most high maintenance person I know.”

“I don’t see that.” He tucked his free hand behind his head.

“My point exactly. High maintenance people never think they’re high maintenance. I mean, look at your family. Your brother is the British Government and your sister is a criminal mastermind. Most people’s problems are things like someone took their parking place or the neighbor’s dog barks too much.” 

“Maybe it’s genetic,” he answered. “All three of us are smart, we’re all insane, and apparently we’re all too needy. Got to be in the genes.”

“I still can barely believe you have a sister.” She toyed with the fraying seam on the collar of his t-shirt.

“Me neither,” he said. “Sometimes I think I’m remembering things from my childhood, things I…deleted, but they’re too…wispy. I can’t grab them as they float by. All that’s left is disturbing sensations. I wonder if I’ll ever remember.”

“I have the same thing! There are still gaps in my memory, and it used to terrify me that those holes might be there forever. It’s like I left pieces of myself in a maze somewhere but I can’t find them.”

“Do you dream about it?” he asked. He moved his arm around her, calmer now, enjoying their closeness.

“Yes. Do you?”

“Yes. They’re not...nice,” he admitted.

“Mine aren’t either. There’s thick, horrible things that move in the dark. The way they...stick on you afterwards is…unsettling. It’s like ghosts.”

“Mmhmm,” Sherlock rumbled sleepily, his eyes closing. Despite the awful subject matter, it was pleasant laying on the sofa with her, his hand resting in the small of her back. He hadn’t felt this serene in a long time. “Maybe we should stick together, even in our dreams. We can…protect each other.”

“That would be good,” she murmured, draping her arm over his waist. She was nearly asleep. It was so soothing laying here with him, hearing his heart beat, feeling his chest rise and fall with his breathing. She wiggled a bit, getting more comfortable, and soon they both were sleeping soundly, wound around each other. 

*****


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

A few days later they went for a drive, up to the New Forest to go for a walk. Molly was trying to walk further these days, building up her strength, pushing herself. She could walk three lengths of the beach now. Sherlock had suggested exploring the woodlands for a change of pace. They got in the car and drove through Hordle and Brockenhurst before turning northeast into the forest. He parked in a small lay-by and they headed into the trees.

It was a splendid forest of tall oak, chestnut, and beech, with a few conifers scattered here and there. The leaf litter was thickly packed, cushioning their feet, but pushing up through it and the young bracken were thousands of English bluebells. They were like a shimmering, hazy carpet of purple-blue heaven. The delicious, damp smell of hickory and pine filled the air, mingling with the sweet, honeyed aroma of the flowers.

“Oh, Sherlock!” Molly exclaimed. “It’s so beautiful!” She took a deep breath, smiling. The sun was out, filtering through the trees, but even so, it was colder under the canopy. Sherlock suggested they go back for their jumpers, but Molly shook her head. “We’ll warm up as we hike,” she said, optimistically.

They wandered together for an hour, admiring the trees, the tender, young, green leaves, showing each other pine cones and owl pellets, enjoying the quiet beauty all around them. They jumped over a small stream and continued deeper into the forest. After a while they sat down against a tree in a shaft of sunlight and relaxed. It was so quiet. Occasionally a bird would call or a squirrel would skitter through the leaf litter, but for the most part, it felt like they were the only people on earth. 

“You know,” Sherlock said, stretching, “if you had told me a year ago that I’d be sitting in a forest doing absolutely nothing, and that I’d be enjoying it, I wouldn’t have believed you. But it’s nice here, isn’t it?”

“Mmhmm,” Molly mumbled. She had her back against a tree and was nearly asleep. Sherlock looked at her and laid down, putting his head in her lap. She lazily ran her fingers through his hair. Soon, they were both dozing peacefully. 

Forty-five minutes later Sherlock woke up suddenly, some internal warning system going off. It was colder and the sun was gone. “Molly,” he said, shaking her. “Wake up. We have to go back.”

She startled awake and opened her eyes. “Why’s it so cold?” she asked, rubbing her bare arms.

“Front’s coming in,” he said, helping her up. “Looks like a spring storm.” He checked the sky. All they had on were jeans and t-shirts, which were already inadequate against the quickly falling temperature. The air smelled of rain. Thunder rumbled across the lowering clouds, and the wind picked up. A fog began to condense, curling around the tree trunks. They began hiking back, but had only gone a couple hundred meters when big, fat raindrops began to fall, making splatting noises on the dry leaves. They kept walking as quickly as they could.

“Shit,” Molly complained, struggling. She tried walking faster but the leaf litter was getting wet and slick. She slipped and fell down, getting wet, muddy leaves on her hands and legs and bashing her knee. “I’m okay!” she said, when Sherlock rushed to her side. “I hit my knee on a rock or something. It just…feels kind of…ow.” Her jeans were ripped and fresh blood oozed out, staining the denim. She took a few more steps, limping a little. Sherlock put his arm around her, helping her.

They kept on. The rain fell harder, changing over to sleet and tiny, hard pellets of hail. Thunder cracked and boomed overhead. “Can you run?” Sherlock shouted. Molly shook her head, her limp worsening, her face twisted in pain. Sherlock picked her up and kept walking. They were both drenched and freezing. Sherlock jumped the stream, panting with exertion, and forged on, the rain plastering his hair to his head and running in rivulets down his neck. Molly had pulled her shirt over her head, but it did little good. She was soaking wet and shivering violently. Sherlock could feel her shaking in his arms. Worried, he ran.

Finally, they reached the car and Molly got in. Sherlock, gasping for air, popped the boot to see if there was a blanket, but it was empty. He got in the car and turned on the heat. Molly’s lips were turning blue and she whimpered. “Hang on, Molly,” he said. “It’ll get warmer in a minute.” He took her in his arms, holding her closely, rubbing her back and arms firmly, trying to get her blood flowing. “God, this was stupid of me,” he muttered.

“I’m okay,” she managed, her teeth chattering. “Just…a little…cold. Dr…drive, Sherlock.”

“Here,” he said, reaching for her dry jumper in the back seat. “Take off that shirt and put this on.” She took the jumper and, shaking, tried to pull her sodden t-shirt over her head. Sherlock helped her. She looked so tiny and vulnerable, shivering in her wet bra, covered with gooseflesh. “Jesus,” he said, panicking, pulling the dry jumper over her head. He slammed the car into gear and headed for home. 

By the time they reached their cottage, Molly had began to cough. She had dark circles under her eyes and looked done in. He carried her into their bedroom, helped her change into a nightgown before bundling her into the bed and piling as many blankets on her as he could find. She was limp, shivering violently, flushed and already feverish. He went and made a pot of tea and brought it to her, with an ice pack for her knee and a wet flannel to clean up the blood. A dark bone bruise had formed around the cut on her knee, but he felt the patella and it was in one piece. He brought in a bath towel and squeezed the water out of her hair, trying to dry it as much as possible. “Shit,” he muttered to himself, “I am such an arsehole. All I do is hurt you.”

“Sherlock,” she coughed. “Get…out of those wet clothes or you’ll get sick, too.” 

He changed into his own pajamas and got into bed with her, wrapping his arms around her and tucking the blankets around them. He was shivering, too. The icy sleet continued to fall outside, drumming against the windows. He kicked himself for not checking the weather before they left. “God, Molly, I’m so sorry,” he said. “This is my fault.”

“I didn’t realize you were in charge of the weather,” Molly joked, weakly. She tried to laugh but fell into a coughing fit instead. Her lungs felt like they were on fire.

She was sick for a week. Sherlock was a nervous, guilty wreck the entire time. He wanted to take her to hospital, but she wouldn’t go. “I’ll be fine,” she insisted. “I just need rest.” The tremor in her arm, which had nearly disappeared, came back. This was a setback for her, a bad one, he thought, and he felt completely responsible.

He gave her paracetamol to reduce her fever, iced her knee a few times per day, and tried to get her to take soup and tea. She didn’t feel like eating, but she made the attempt, to please him. Mostly she slept, with Sherlock hovering nervously by her side. He hated seeing her like this. It reminded him, unbearably, of her coma. He couldn’t sleep and had frequent panic attacks.

On the sixth morning, whilst Molly slept, still feverish and hacking, Sherlock paced in his pajamas and dressing gown in the sitting room, dealing with a panic attack, his heart pounding out of his chest. He had almost decided they should return to London. He was a failure at taking care of her, he realized, he was only making things worse. He couldn’t bear seeing her in pain, especially when he had inflicted it. He couldn’t seem to do anything right, helpless to stop his own panic attacks or make her better. He’d never felt so ineffectual. In the midst of his self-loathing the doorbell rang, and he opened the door to find Carol on the stoop.

“Just checking on you, dear,” she began, “we haven’t seen you both in a whi—“ She stopped as she got a good look at him. He was pale and exhausted, bleary, hair standing on end, dark circles under his eyes. “My god, what is the matter?”

“It’s Molly,” Sherlock began, waving her in. He sank down into his chair, not caring he probably looked like a madman. “We got caught in that hailstorm last week and she’s sick. She won’t let me take her to hospital, and I’m…I’m…” he couldn’t finish the sentence. He looked lost, desperate, helpless.

Carol immediately went into the bedroom and checked on Molly, Sherlock on her heels. She felt Molly’s forehead. “She’s running a fever,” she pronounced. “Has she been awake much?”

“Some,” he answered. “She’s been taking a little tea, soup and toast, but not enough. I don’t know what to do.”

“You poor thing!” Carol said, soothingly. “Don’t you worry. Give me a couple of hours and we’ll have the both of you fixed up right as rain.” She patted his hand. “Can’t have our famous detectives getting sick on my watch.” She headed for the door. “And I want you to get some rest, too,” she chided, shaking her finger at him. “You’ve been worrying yourself into a dither. I can tell. Pop into bed right this minute, I insist. I’ll be back soon.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Marshall my forces,” she grinned at him with a wink. “Into bed, you!” She pushed him down the hall.

True to her word, Carol was back that afternoon, with George in tow to unload the car. There were a number of casseroles, home made soups, orange juice, fresh bread, jams, medications, and a doctor, who checked Molly over. 

“Just a touch of bronchitis,” he said, assuring Sherlock she would be okay in a week, provided she kept resting and started eating properly. The bone bruise might take a month or two to heal, but he agreed there was nothing broken or torn. He looked at Sherlock too, despite his protests, and gave him another prescription for diazepam when Sherlock confessed his panic attacks were growing worse.

“You’ll be all right,” the doctor said. “Yes, she’s had a setback, but it’s not too bad. She’ll bounce back, wait and see. Have you considered seeing a professional for your anxiety disorder?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “I thought they’d go away by now,” he said, trying to minimize the issue.

“Well, I’d recommend it,” the doctor urged. “It’s extremely treatable, you know. From the little you’ve told me, you’ve been through a lot. I know who you are, of course. I love your blog. You’re one of those super-adrenaline types, aren’t you? It’s all well and good, I suppose, until the top blows off. Then you get…well, this,” he said, waving his hand up and down, identifying Sherlock. “They’re hard things to deal with; I’ve had them myself. You’re in a rough patch right now, but you’ll improve. You’ve just got to hit on the underlying issue. See, you don’t want to keep taking the diazepam. It’s helpful, but it’s not the best treatment. Talking to someone might help?” He smiled kindly, clapping Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m around if you need an ear,” he finished.

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll think about it,” he hedged. He did feel better, the doctor was no fool. A few minutes later, surprised at the kindness of this community, Sherlock kissed Carol goodbye on the forehead and gave her a hug. She reminded him of Mrs. Hudson. “I can’t tell you…” he admitted, nearly speechless. “Thank you for helping Molly. And me,” he added, as if he were an afterthought. “Please thank everyone for me. I...I’m…,” he couldn’t finish.

“Nonsense, you silly, gorgeous man,” Carol said, patting his cheek. “Happy to help.”

“Almost forgot, old chap,” George said, handing him an enormous bouquet of fresh pink roses. “These are for the young lady in there. They’re from Harry McGregor,” he winked. “Best get a move on, what?”

“Definitely,” Carol added, nodding. “Get a move on, Sherlock. That girl loves you. Don’t you dare make her wait any longer! I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

They swept out, leaving well wishes and admonishments to ring if they needed anything at all. Sherlock took the flowers in to Molly. “Lovely!” she said, smiling.

“They’re from that rake, Harry McGregor,” he muttered, clearly jealous. Molly chuckled and coughed.

***

“Oh, Christ,” Sherlock moaned, hanging up his phone and looking at Molly helplessly. She had just come in from the garden with Toby, limping a little because of her knee. They’d been enjoying the sunshine and flowers. She had a couple sprigs of purple lilac and several pink peonies in her hands. She’d only been out of bed a few days, and Sherlock had been hovering around her like a concerned bee, fussy and cranky.

“Smell,” she said, holding the fragrant, lush flowers up to his nose. 

He inhaled deeply. “Mmm,” he said. “That’s lovely. This is not.” He waved his phone.

Molly went into the kitchen and rooted around for something to put them in. “What’s not lovely?” she called, arranging the flowers in a jam jar, unable to find a vase. She came out to the sitting room and placed the flowers on the coffee table. Their fresh, delightful perfume filled the air.

“That was George,” Sherlock grumbled. “He wants that ride in the Jag. I couldn’t say no. It was…horrible.” He slid down in his chair, shaking his head. “I hate being polite!” he shouted.

“I know,” she said, sympathetically. “Poor Sherlock. The crushing burden of social interaction.” She sighed dramatically. 

He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “It hurt,” he pouted. “You have no idea. I just want to be here with you. I don’t want anyone else around.”

“Stop sulking, Sherlock. I’ll go with you. I want to see Carol and thank her myself. Us women can chat whilst you men ogle the studly car. But make it next week, yeah? I still need a few days to get my strength back. Oh, and I won’t be here tomorrow night. I have a date.” She smiled.

“What?” He paled. “Not with…”

“Yep. Harry. He’s taking me out for dinner and then a ride on his boat.” 

“I won’t allow it,” Sherlock grumbled. “You’re not well enough yet.”

“I don’t think you have a say about that,” she chided gently. 

Sherlock sulked and growled for the next 24 hours. When Molly came home he’d already gone to bed, his own bed, even though it was only 9:30. She stopped in his doorway. “Why are you sleeping over here?” she asked, knowing full well he wasn’t asleep, as well as the reason he wasn’t in her bed.

He sat up and glared at her. “Why don’t you get Harry McGregor to keep you warm?”

“If I wanted Harry McGregor, I might. But I don’t.” She shrugged, went into her own room and got ready for bed. When she got back from the loo, she snapped off the lights and got under the duvet. Moments later Sherlock joined her. She turned into him, tucking her head onto his shoulder and gently rubbed his chest with the flat of her hand. “Mmm,” she purred, “and this is why I don’t want him. Remember when I promised you’d always be first? You’ve ruined all other men for me, Sherlock Holmes.” He smiled, satisfied, and wrapped his arms around her.

*****


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

A couple days later, Sherlock came home from his afternoon walk to find Molly crying on the sofa, Toby clutched in her arms. “What’s wrong?” he asked, sitting down next to her, worried. “Molly?”

“They died,” she sobbed, her face buried in Toby’s fur.

“Who died?” His gut twisted. _Oh, god, who died?_ “Molly,” he begged, “please!”

“My…my birds!” she wailed. Toby squirmed and bolted.

He was completely confused. “Wha—which birds? You mean the dead birds in the garden? The ones that are already…dead?” The way her little chin was quivering nearly tore his heart out.

She nodded, sniffling, and grabbed another tissue. “We killed them.”

Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath. “Molly, I haven’t killed any birds, and I’m pretty sure you haven’t either. Something else killed them. We found them on the beach. Remember?”

“No, I don’t mean that!” she cried. “I mean we, humans, killed them. Go look.”

Sherlock ran out to the garden. The seagull on the surface had decomposed to the point where he could see into the stomach area. It was packed full of small, colorful bits of plastic. The poor thing had eaten so much plastic that it couldn’t get any nutrients and had probably starved to death, or severely weakened, had been killed by the storm. The bird under the surface had likely suffered the same fate. Sherlock sighed deeply, understanding Molly’s distress. He took a shovel and buried the bird completely, putting an end to their grim experiment.

He went back inside, sat down next to her, and wrapped his arms around her. She grabbed his shirt and continued to cry. He was suddenly angry at the careless stupidity of his kind. “Oh, Molly,” he said, rubbing her back, “you’re so good.”

“I’m not,” she muttered. “I’m a murderer. A murbirderer,” she choked out, with a bitter laugh. “I’m to blame just as much as…everyone else.”

“There’s a difference,” he insisted. “You care. They don’t. That’s important.”

She stopped crying and looked up at him. Her face was puffy from her tears, and her shimmering eyes were rimmed with red and filled with sorrow. She blinked, and one last tear spilled over and trickled down her cheek. He brushed it away with his thumb and gazed into her troubled eyes, struck with how absolutely beautiful she looked in that moment. He cupped her head in his hands, gently stroking her hair out of her face. “Really?” she asked, unsure, needing his reassurance. She looked so open and vulnerable.

“Yes, Molly,” he breathed. “Really.” He moved closer, pulled by something inexorable, and found himself pressing his lips softly against hers. He was trying to give her comfort, to wordlessly express the depths of his admiration for her heart, her kindness, her grace. 

She willingly yielded to him, her head falling back against his shoulder, drinking the sweet succor from his lips. His kiss affected her more than she thought it might. “Oh,” she murmured, surprised, moving her lips against his, winding her arm around his neck, threading her fingers through his curls. The pain inside her over the death of the birds was soothed by his kiss, by his understanding, by his tender regard. Her core began to fill up with warmth. 

She took a deep, shuddering breath and a small, needful noise escaped her, the sound washing through him, filling him with a swift, unexpected desire. A flood of tenderness enveloped her as his tongue mingled with hers, the kiss deepening. She kissed him back with her whole heart, opening to him, feeling his shoulders tremble under her fingers.

Just as he started to lose himself in the heat of her lips, warning bells began to ring in his head. Sherlock broke the kiss, holding onto her shoulders, pushing her away from him, suddenly afraid. “I…uh…better stop,” he managed, gasping. “I’m…sorry.” He got up and paced in front of the sofa, casting a glance at her that begged her to understand. “I shouldn’t have…taken advantage of your…pain like that. It’s…not,” he attempted to explain. “I’m…just not—“

“Ready,” she finished, nodding. 

“Yes,” he said quietly, looking a little ashamed. He couldn’t figure out what the hell was wrong with him. She was gentle, caring, beautiful, smart, loved him, and yet he wouldn’t commit to her. He felt terribly stunted and useless.

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” she responded evenly, hiding her discouragement. “We’re not on a timeline, and we don’t have to arrive anywhere specific.” She paused, her forehead wrinkling in thought. “Maybe we’re searching for something…more, maybe not, but we have our friendship, no matter what happens. I don’t want to ruin that, or make you uncomfortable. We’re friends.” She stopped suddenly, as if those words reminded her of something. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling of a dark, growling presence calling from the shadows of her past. “Friends,” she repeated to herself.

He read her discomfort in the tiny crease that appeared between her brows and in the confusion clouding her eyes, mentally berating himself for having put it there. If she was starting to remember, he realized, he was running out of time. He needed to swallow his fear and do something.

***

A few more days passed, and Molly woke up to a sunny day. There had been no repeat kiss, much to her disappointment. So, she waited, patiently, like she had always done, giving him time. Her arm continued to slowly improve and Sherlock’s snail shell collection had grown to fill two entire shelves on the bookcase, whilst the books had been stacked in a tower on the floor. It’s starting to look like Baker Street, Molly thought. At least there weren’t body parts in the fridge. Yet.

She grabbed a pillow and her trashy novel, and went outside with Toby to lay in the sun and read. The tulips surrounding the cottage were in full bloom, their lush, colorful heads bobbing in a light breeze. Molly took a deep breath of sea air, feeling peaceful and relaxed. It was so lovely here. Toby rolled in the grass and began hunting insects. 

As she spread the blanket and settled down near the edge of the bluff she could see Sherlock playing in the sea. He dove and swam like a dolphin, occasionally shouting, energized by the cold water, enjoying the waves. She opened her book. It was still difficult for her to concentrate on reading, and the sight of Sherlock frolicking in the ocean in his swim trunks was distracting, but she knew the water was cold and he wouldn’t be able to stay in very long. She popped on her sunglasses and pretended to read whilst watching him.

A short time later Sherlock emerged from the sea, grabbed his towel, and ran up the bluff. Dripping wet and panting, he flung himself down on the blanket next to Molly and flashed her a heart-stopping smile. She blushed, grateful for her sunglasses, and turned a page, completely unread, in her book.

“I’m going to get you in the water someday, Molly,” he said. “It’s wonderful.” 

“Isn’t it too cold?” She shivered.

“No! It’s fabulous!” He shook his wet curls like a dog, splattering her with droplets of cold water. She screamed, laughing. He laid down on his back to dry. “Read me some more trash, Molly,” he commanded. “Did Dirk and Raven escape from the dungeon?”

“Yes, they’re on the run now, but there’s a huge storm, so they’ve taken refuge in an old hay barn.”

“Gee, I wonder what happens next,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “I hope their escape from the storm turns out better than ours did.” He took a closer look at Molly, noticing she had an attractive glow about her today. The sun and fresh air was working its healthy magic on her. That pleased him. He reached out and took the elastic from her ponytail, letting her rich, dark locks tumble heavily around her shoulders. “Mmm,” he rumbled, appreciatively.

“Well,” Molly said, self consciously, two pink spots appearing on her cheeks, “he got injured by Lord Howard’s sword, so she has to…give him first aid, and they need a quiet place for him to recover.”

Sherlock turned on his side towards her and propped his head in his hand, stretching his long legs out. “And where did he get injured?” He started fingering the sleeve of her blouse.

“In the dungeon.”

“No,” he said. “Where on his person?”

“Oh. His…leg. His...upper thigh.”

“Ah. So she has to remove his trousers.” Sherlock’s voice had dropped down a register. 

“Um, yes. She has to tear her petticoat to make bandages, and they’re both…naked.” Molly swallowed, noticing the sun was feeling a bit warm today. “See, they were chilled, and the wet clothes were just making it…hard.” 

“Hard?” Sherlock repeated, softly, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear so he could see her face better.

“Um, I meant difficult,” Molly squeaked. “Difficult to stay warm.”

“So, they’re pressed up against each other for warmth, he’s sexily woozy from the blood loss, they’re skin to skin in the dark, and they’ve just escaped certain death.” Sherlock scooched closer to Molly. His voice was almost a whisper. ”Where are his hands?” 

“On…on her waist.”

“Like this?” He slid his hand over her stomach, pressing her back, encouraging her to lie down. 

“Yes.” Molly laid back, stretching out next to him. She could barely breathe, his voice was so deep and rumbly and his nearness so intoxicating. 

“And then he kisses her?”

“Ye…yes.”

“Read me that part, Molly.” He started playing with the hem of her blouse, pushing it up slightly, his fingertips making maddening little circles on her skin above the waistband of her trousers.

Molly gulped. “O-okay,” she said, clearing her throat, turning on her side towards him and reading aloud. “‘Raven felt again the rush of helplessness, the sinking yielding, the surging tide of warmth that left her limp. And the face of Lord Howard was blurred and drowned to nothingness. Dirk bent back her head across his arm and kissed her, softly at first, and then with a swift gradation of intensity that made her cling to him as the only solid thing in a dizzy swaying world. His insistent mouth was parting her shaking lips, his tongue caressing hers, sending wild tremors along her nerves, evoking from her sensations she had never known she was capable of feeling. A rush of…wet heat bloomed between her thighs, and the…the hard peaks of her breasts ached for his touch. She could feel his...thickening cock straining against…her…thigh.’” Molly faltered to a stop, embarrassed by the text and distracted by the beauty of Sherlock’s firm, muscled body so near to her, as well as his delicate fingers tracing her ribs.

Sherlock moved even closer as she read, until his body was millimeters from hers. He removed her sunglasses, leaned in and began to nuzzle her throat, gently biting her earlobe, licking the pulse point behind her ear and kissing the inviting freckle underneath. “Mmm, you smell good, Molly,” he murmured. His pressed a feathery row of kisses along her jawline, slowly working his way towards her mouth, whilst his hand moved under her blouse, gently teasing her side and the warm skin under her breast.

“Oh, god, Sherlock,” Molly breathed, closing her eyes, beginning to melt into his touch. Her stomach was full of butterflies, and she felt a delicious weakness invading her bones. He smelled fresh and salty like the sea, and his lips on her skin were sending shivers of delight through her. She dropped the book, winding her fingers into his damp hair, moaning softly, pressing herself eagerly against him.

He claimed her lips in an urgent kiss, his tongue dancing with hers. The kiss deepened and she began to pant whilst he moved against her, rubbing his thigh along hers, pushing it between her legs. His hand crept up to her breast, under her blouse, teasing her nipple through her bra.

“Molly,” he groaned into her mouth. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Sherlock,” Molly managed, confused by his actions, trying to keep her head from spinning, clutching his shoulder to steady herself. “Wha…what are we doing?”

“Kissing,” he murmured, demonstrating. “You taste wonderful.” His lips moved down to the base of her throat. He nosed that sweet notch where her collar bones met, touching his tongue to her warm skin.

“No, I mean…oh, god, yes, Sherlock, right there…I mean, wha…why are we kissing?”

“Don’t you want to?” His voice was deep and languid.

“Yes,” she said. “No. I’m…I’m not sure what’s happening. I mean, I know why I’m kissing you, but I don’t understand why you’re kissing me. I thought…I thought you didn’t, erm, do this sort of thing.”

“You’re so lovely, Molly, so..tempting. Can’t a man change his mind?” He continued to stroke her breast, lightly pinching her nipple, causing her body to shudder and instinctively arch into his hand. A hot rush of desire vibrated through her core, and she felt the moisture from her arousal spreading between her legs.

“I…I guess,” she conceded. “Shouldn’t we…talk about this or something?”

“Kiss now. Talk later,” he mumbled, pushing her onto her back, his hand sliding down her belly, unfastening her trousers, whilst his lips reclaimed hers, scorching her, rendering her incapable of rational thought. Molly felt she might burst into flames from his touch. His fingers worked their way lower, sliding under her knickers, through her soft curls, until he reached her hot, wet, centre. 

“Sherlock, someone might see us!” she protested, feebly, not wanting him to stop.

“There’s no one around for miles,” he rumbled, sliding his middle finger up and down her slit, distributing her sweet, lubricating nectar around her entrance. “It’s just you and me, skin to skin.” He spent a few moments kissing her neck whilst stroking her, giving her time to relax, time to open. When she was ready, he pushed two fingers deep into her and scissored them, stretching her, hitting that bundle of nerves inside. “God, Molly, you’re so wet for me,” he whispered against her mouth. She felt faint and the sky seemed to spin. His thumb found her clit, and he began to rub it whilst he fucked her with his fingers, causing her hips to lift off the ground and buck against him as she moved, finding a rhythm with his hand. She moaned incoherently, panting, straining against his fingers buried inside her, still gripping his shoulder.

“Harder,” she begged, gasping. “Please…”

Sherlock obliged, unable to take his eyes from her face, flushed and glowing with ecstasy in the bright sunshine. Her eyes were half closed and she bit her lower lip with exquisite concentration as she ground her pelvis against his fingers. He played her like his violin, now soft and then with increasing pressure, setting a rhythm designed to slowly build her desire. He teased her, backing off before she could reach fulfillment, taking delight in tantalizing her, then working her faster, building her to a crescendo. With his free hand he pushed her blouse and bra up, exposing her breasts to the open air, and he lowered his mouth to a sensitive nipple, sucking and biting it until tremors pulsed through her body.

The additional sensation was too much, driving her over the edge. Molly gasped, her body shaking, and she threw her head back as she came, crying his name, shuddering through her release. She collapsed, spent, floating in a sweet, blissful dream filled only with him. “God,” she breathed, as she began to return to earth. “Oh my god.” She turned towards him, leaned up and kissed him, tenderly. “You’ve done that before,” she said, impressed, her brown eyes soft and large, her pupils blown wide with passion.

“Once or twice,” he admitted, smugly, laying on his back.

She sat up, pulled off her blouse and bra, wiggled out of her trousers and knickers, and stretched out on her stomach beside him, running her finger over his lips, tracing their shape, looking into his eyes. They were dark blue with flecks of gold now, and they were filled with desire. For her. She caught her breath at the unabashed hunger in his eyes.

The only adornment to her lovely nakedness was the snail shell necklace she wore, dangling above her heart. He reached for it, making a detour to caress her breasts, caught the shell in his hand and used the ribbon to pull her closer to him until their lips met. 

She began to leisurely kiss him, enjoying the taste and feel of him, his plush, enticing mouth, the line of his jaw, the long, elegant column of his neck, working her way down his beautiful body, down his chest, stopping to pinch and lick his nipples. He moaned and grunted with pleasure. She kissed the small, round, pale scar near the centre of his chest, the proof of his steadfast regard for Mary. 

Slowly, she untied the strings of his swim trunks and stroked his hardening length through the damp material. “Turn about is fair play,” she muttered, grinning, pulling his clothing down and off his legs. She crawled back up between his legs, sitting on her heels to appreciate the beauty of his body. “Oh, my,” she said, gazing at his gorgeous cock, springing up from its mass of dark curls, free and rigid. She looked at him, excitedly. “A present! For me?” 

“It’s not a pony, “ he laughed, nodding.

“Still might be rideable, though,” she mused, causing him to grow even harder at the thought of her straddling him, of being sheathed by her luscious depths. She slid her hand up his thigh, running her fingers along the crease of his hip, bending over and gently kissing the sensitive skin of his lower belly, teasing the dark, curly hair at the apex of his thighs. 

Wrapping her delicate fingers firmly around his cock, she licked a stripe from base to tip, running her tongue over the slit at the top, tasting his clear, salty precum before slowly taking him fully into her mouth. Sherlock moaned as he felt her lips surround him, her quick, clever tongue caressing his shaft. She used her teeth to gently rake up and down his length, causing him to gasp and mutter, “holy fuck!” 

She took her time as he had with her, caressing him languidly, moving faster and then slower to prolong his pleasure, increasing and decreasing her pressure, loving the thick, heavy feel of him in her mouth and the sound of him sighing and rumbling, enjoying her ministrations. 

He wound his fingers into her hair and tried to hold on for as long as he could, but the sight of her, on her knees between his legs, eagerly working him, quickly drove him over the edge. His hips bucked as he thrust into her mouth, his muscles tightening. He cried, “god, Molly!” as he climaxed, his hand fisted in her hair. She swallowed him down and then licked him clean.

She crawled back up him and collapsed on his chest, her head in the crook of his neck. “Mmm,” she purred. 

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Sherlock said. “That was wonderful.”

“Sherlock,” Molly said, after a few moments, “what just happened?”

“Well,” he said, twisting a lock of her hair around his fingers, “Dirk and Raven were holed up in an abandoned barn, about to commit a carnal sin…”

She laughed, shaking her head, connecting the freckles on his chest with her finger. “Yes, I remember that. I meant the part after. Between then and now.”

Sherlock reached up, cupped her head in his large hand, rubbing her brow with the pad of his thumb, easing the furrow between her eyes. “Stop thinking,” he said.

“If things have changed…even more, I need to know. I’m kind of…in shock. Happy shock,” she clarified.

“Of course things have changed,” he sighed. There was a slight pause, and then he shrugged. “Because…” he said, “because I wanted to. Because you’re beautiful. Because I care for you. Because I want you to be happy. Because I don’t want to be lonely anymore. Pick one.”

“Oh,” Molly said, looking pleased. “Okay, then.” 

*****


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty 

“For god’s sake, Molly!” Sherlock said. “Are you trying to kill me? Put some clothes on!” Hours had passed and still she refused to get dressed. He was in a highly distracted state, trying to cook dinner whilst she danced around him in the small kitchen, running her hands over him teasingly, pressing kisses on his lips before skipping away, her ponytail bouncing behind her. He glared at her.

“No,” she grinned, circling in on him again, lightly pinching his arse, twirling provocatively, playfully striking poses, showing off her body. “Let’s become nudists.”

“My god, you’re incorrigible,” he sighed, peeling off his t-shirt and throwing it at her. “Put that on or I’m not going to be responsible for your…safety.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be safe,” she retorted, catching his shirt and burying her face in it, inhaling deeply, enjoying the scent of him that lingered in the material. “Besides, you started this…out on the lawn this morning,” she said, running her hands up over her hips to her breasts, cupping them, swaying slowly, remembering the intoxicating feeling of his fingers inside her and the low rumble of his voice in her ear. She closed her eyes, fingering her nipples, lost in a happy, sensuous dream. 

“Jesus…” he breathed, watching her. Shakily, he ran his hand through his hair and licked his lips.

She opened her eyes, grinned, and then spun, backing into him, pressing her bum against his crotch, wiggling. He grabbed her waist in a futile attempt to stop her. “Molly,” he growled, agitated, “if you don’t put something on I’m going to fuck you senseless right...this...minute. You have no idea the…restraint this is taking.”

She smiled at him over her shoulder, expectantly waggling her eyebrows. “Good…” she giggled. She turned around, sliding her arms around his neck, pressing up against him, kissing him slowly, tasting his lips with her tongue.

He pulled his head back, his hands still on her waist. “But then…what about later,” he said. “I thought we agreed to take things slowly. Have a nice…night. Dinner, wine, then...pleasure. Take our time, enjoy ourselves. Make it…special. Hang on. Do we need protection?”

“I don’t see why,” she said, molding herself against him. “I’m on the pill and you’re clean. I tested you after that business with Culverton Smith, remember?”

“Right. Good.” She was making him crazy. Even thinking about what they were going to do later made his cock twitch. He wanted her badly, unsure if he could wait one second longer.

“It’s sweet of you to think about it, Sherlock,” Molly said, stepping away. She pulled on the t-shirt and began pirouetting around and singing, off-key. The shirt barely covered her arse, but it gave him some relief. He pushed past her out to the sitting room, threw himself into his chair and picked up a book, opened it randomly, trying to read, only to find her climbing into his lap. She straddled him, winding her arms around his neck. “Kiss me, Sherlock,” she murmured. He gave her a peck on the cheek, pretending to concentrate on his book. She began to lick his neck.

“Pay attention to me,” she pouted against his throat, running her hand down his bare chest, tracing his ribs with teasing fingers, tickling his nipples, admiring his firm muscles and flat, strong stomach. With a naughty giggle, she started rubbing his stiffening cock through his jeans. He threw the book down with an agitated grunt, wrapped his arm around her knees and stood up, slinging her over his shoulder. He stalked into the kitchen whilst she screamed and kicked her feet.

“Put me down, Sherlock!” she squealed.

He turned off the stove and spanked her bare bum once, hard. “No,” he said, smiling with satisfaction at her subsequent shriek. He strode into their bedroom and threw her on the bed, growling. “Take that shirt off, Molly.”

She scrambled to her knees on the bed, fiddling with the edge of the shirt, pulling it up and down over her hip, teasing him. “No,” she laughed.

Sherlock quickly stripped off his jeans and advanced on her with a feral gleam in his eye. He made a lunge for her, grabbed her and yanked the shirt over her head. He pulled the elastic out of her hair, letting the long, dark locks tumble around her shoulders and down her back. She shook it out, running her fingers through the silky strands, tempting him, her passion aflame in her eyes and body.

He seized her, pulling her under him, and crushed his lips against hers, plunging his tongue into her mouth, ravishing her. His hands wandered over her, pinching, teasing, stroking, burning her with his desire. This was no languid sex play in the morning sunshine. This was hunger, strong and driving, she wanting him, urgently, he needing her, desperately.

“Oh, yes,” Molly whimpered with delight, when he released her lips and she was able to take a deep, shuddering breath. She felt an indescribable bliss washing through her, filling her up, bursting through each cell in her body. She clutched him to her, pressing against him, wanting somehow to merge with his flesh.

He kissed his way down her lovely neck, stopping to roughly suck a mark of possession into her skin at the base of her throat, before moving lower to her breasts. He kissed and sucked her nipples, using his teeth and tongue to stimulate her, sending rushing waves of pleasure through her.

He slid his hands under her thighs, pushing her knees up and out, before beginning to knead her arse with his strong fingers, rubbing her sensitive cleft, still licking and biting her nipples whilst she arched into his mouth, moaning. He kissed his way further down, stroking her heated skin, lingering over her belly, pressing his lips into the curls between her thighs, letting the delicious scent of her fill him up. He nosed lower, sucking down the sweet liquid flowing from her core, spreading her folds, reaching deeply into her with his tongue. 

Molly moaned, quivering, her legs spreading further apart to accommodate him, opening to him completely, clutching his dark curls between her fingers, pushing herself against his mouth. He found her clit with his tongue, licking and sucking the soft pearl, worrying it with his teeth, causing her to cry out his name. Her desire built, white hot, rising, overwhelming her, needing him within her, now.

“Sherlock, please,” she urged him. “Fuck me.”

He shook his head, still drinking from her sweet centre, laving attention on her sensitive nub, growling his pleasure into her cunt. He pushed two long fingers deeply into her, working her clit with his tongue, crooking his fingers inside her, flooding that responsive bundle of nerves with exquisite sensation from both sides. With his other hand he rolled and twisted her nipple between his fingers, tugging her to further arousal. He could feel her body tightening, her moans growing louder. She was nearly there. “Come for me, Molly,” he rumbled.

It was too much. Molly screamed, shattering, her body quivering, gripping him tightly whilst a million sparks of desire exploded within her. She went limp, moaning, “Sherlock…,” and then drifted wordlessly, bonelessly, through clouds of ecstasy.

Sherlock raised himself up, grinning to see her nearly fainting with pleasure. He crawled up her body and kissed her lips, deeply, passionately, sweetly. “Molly,” he murmured into her mouth. “Dearest Molly.” Coming back to herself, she slid her arms around his strong shoulders, kissing him back, loving the taste of herself on his lips and the way his body filled her arms. 

She pushed him over, onto his back, and threw a leg over his hips, straddling him. Leisurely, she lowered herself onto his rigid cock, gazing at him with complete adoration in her eyes. She took him deep within and held him there for a few moments, barely moving, allowing them both to grow accustomed to the intimate way their bodies met. He groaned, fully sheathed within her warm depths; she felt so perfect around him. A luscious euphoria washed over him. He gripped her hips, wanting to thrust. 

“Wait, Sherlock,” she whispered. “Don’t move yet.” Languidly, almost tortuously, she started barely rolling her hips, her hands on his chest, panting softly. The feel of his hardness inside her, filling her, stretching her, was delicious and sublimely satisfying. 

Eventually, her slow, gentle enticements encouraged him to respond, and he began to push, lifting his hips. Biting her lip, her cheeks flushed, her eyes half closed, she ground against him, trying to take him deeper. The sight of her sweet concentration nearly took his breath away as she clenched around him. 

He began to thrust as she pushed against him harder and harder, driving into her, and she leaned forward so she could meet his lips with her own, kissing him fervently. He sat up, sliding his arms around her as they moved together, embracing each other, seeking mutual bliss. Their pace increased, their desire building, needing each other for fulfillment, straining to become one. Finally, trembling together, they reached their peak, crying out with joy, before falling panting, back into the sheets, wrapped around each other.

*****


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One  
“How would you liked to be tied up?” Molly asked with a sultry glance, pulling the long, red sash out of Sherlock’s dressing gown. She ran it between her teeth and arched her eyebrows.

Sherlock’s eyes got big, but he nodded, adamantly. “Yes, please,” he chuckled. He reached over his head and grabbed the bars of the brass headboard, already getting aroused. Molly began winding the silk sash around his wrists.

They’d been in bed for nearly two days, as new lovers do, leaving only to eat or take a bath, exploring, talking, playing with each other’s bodies, making slow, delicious love. There were long stretches of tender, contented silence, simply holding one another and enjoying their mutual being. They couldn’t seem to get enough of each other. Their world had shrunk to the size of their bed, but it was all they wanted or needed.

Molly finished securing his wrists to the headboard, completing her handiwork with a nice, plump bow. She looked him up and down. “A work of art,” she assessed, proudly. “I love presents. It’s not too tight?” she asked him.

Sherlock tested the knots and shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said. “It’s a little frustrating, but I suppose that’s the point.”

“Just relax into it,” she suggested. “I wouldn’t want to cut off the circulation to those beautiful hands,” she purred. “I’m going to need them later.” She straddling him, smacking his thigh. “Giddy up,” she murmured, with a low laugh.

She began to make an all-out assault on his senses, running her hair over his torso, kissing him slowly, deeply, teasing his lower belly, fondling his hardening cock. Sherlock moaned, relaxing into her now familiar touch, reveling in the feeling of her small, cool hands on his hot skin.

Molly stroked his ribs, using the tips of her fingers to tickle him. Sherlock flinched and started giggling. With a wicked smile, she tickled him more. “You like that?” she asked. “Are you ticklish? Oh, Sherlock, let’s play…” He began to wriggle, laughing, at her new onslaught. She kept at it, unmercifully. He kicked his legs and laughed. He laughed until he could barely breathe. He laughed until he couldn’t stop. Molly picked up a pillow and playfully smashed it over his face.

Something within him snapped suddenly and he screamed in terror. He thrashed and yanked on the restraint, desperately trying to free himself, shrieking, “Eurus! Eurus! Stop!” His mind was full of uncomprehending darkness, a voice in his ear singing, _play with me Sherlock_ , pains shooting up and down his arms. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. 

Molly immediately threw the pillow away. “Sherlock!” she shouted, “you’re okay!” She scrabbled at the knots, untying them as quickly as she could, fear gripping her. Something was terribly wrong. He gasped for air, his body shuddering, groaning with distress. Once free, he sat up, gulping, and started rubbing his arms. 

“They itch,” he muttered. “Can’t breathe.” The room spun, spots appeared in front of his eyes, and a dark grey cloud intruded on the edges of his vision. Molly grabbed the diazepam out of the bedside table and gave him three. His inner forearms broke out with hard, angry red bumps. “What the fuck is happening?” he cried.

“You’ve got hives,” she said, watching another patch flush to life at the base of his throat. He started scratching them. “Hang on, Sherlock.” She ran into the loo and rooted around in the medicine cabinet, looking for antihistamines. Finding some, she rushed back, only to find he’d ripped his arms open scratching them. Spots of blood stained the sheets and his uncontrolled scratching had raised long, red welts on his arms and chest.

“You’ve got to stop,” she told him, gently, putting her hands over his. She was about to give him the antihistamines, but then hesitated. “Shit, I can’t give you these,” she said. 

“Please, Molly,” he begged. “Just give them to me! Make this stop!”

“We can’t mix these with diazepam. It’ll slow your heart too much. It might kill you. Just a minute, Sherlock. Sit on your hands.” He shoved them flat under his thighs, roaring with frustration, his fingers digging into his legs, the muscles in his chest and arms straining. Molly ran into the kitchen, scooped some ice cubes into a bowl, ran back, and started running them over his arms, the ice easing the fire in his skin. He rocked back and forth, whimpering. She talked to him in low, soothing tones. “Shhh, baby. Try to relax. You’re going to be okay. Just breathe.”

“Oh, my god,” he muttered, struggling for air as another wave of panic enveloped him. He curled into her, moaning. She put her arms around him, covering him with the duvet, rocking him. “Molly, please hold me tight,” he said. “I’m dying for a fix.” She hugged him tighter, murmuring to him, her mind whirling. 

Time passed, all too slowly. Sherlock began to calm down. The hives dissipated. “What the hell was that?” he mumbled, once he could trust himself to speak at least partly rationally. 

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Sherlock, you were screaming your sister’s name.”

“I was? I don’t remember that.”

“I think,” Molly said, nodding her head in a thoughtful way and rubbing his back, “we should invite Mycroft down for a little visit. I’m not sure he’s been completely honest with you.”

***

“Oh,” Mycroft commented, as he stepped over the threshold of their cottage. “Well, isn’t this…nice. So…quaint.” He was dressed in tweeds, looking every inch the country gentleman.

“This from a man who lives in a castle,” Sherlock muttered, closing the door behind him. He tossed the car keys on the piano.

Molly came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She broke into a huge smile. “Mycroft! It’s so good to see you!” She trotted over to him and gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. He blushed, pleased. “Sit down. Make yourself at home. Glass of wine?” He nodded. “How was the train?”

“It was fine. Unremarkable. I got a bit of reading done. The countryside is very attractive this time of year.” Mycroft sat down, with Sherlock across from him on the sofa. Molly came out with a bottle of wine and three glasses on a tray, and handed the bottle and opener to Sherlock before sitting down next to him. 

“You’ll like this one,” Sherlock said. “A Sauvignon from California. Maybe not the same depth as the French ones, but light and crisp. Perfect with lunch.” He poured three glasses and passed one to Mycroft. He and Molly picked theirs up. “Cheers,” he said, clinking. “Here’s to…family. Molly has kindly made us food whilst I picked you up. I would have done it, but for some odd reason she wanted to serve you something that wasn’t burned.”

“Well done, Molly,” Mycroft said, chuckling. “Thank you.”

“I thought we could eat,” Sherlock continued, “and then you and I could walk down to the cliffs and look for fossils. See?” He showed Mycroft his little cluster of fossils, in various stages of cleaning.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “These are very nice!”

“They’re yours,” Sherlock responded. “Except for this trilobite. That’s for Molly.”

“Look at this ammonite!” Mycroft exclaimed. “It’s perfect! This one might be Devonian. Lovely! Very generous of you, brother dear. Very generous indeed.” He smiled.

They chatted for a few minutes about the best way to clean fossils before Molly called them to lunch. “It’s nothing fancy,” Molly said. “Just salmon and asparagus. Store bought rolls. I wanted to make a salad, but I have trouble chopping. I’m afraid I’ll cut my left hand off.”

“It looks delicious, Molly,” Mycroft said, setting to. “I’m quite hungry. So, are the two of you having fun down here, playing house?”

Sherlock tensed. He wasn’t in the mood for flippant Mycroft. He took a deep breath, but before he could speak, Molly put a quieting hand on his leg under the table.

“It’s been lovely,” she cut in, earnestly. “Sherlock has been wonderful. My arm is much better, and I think even Sherlock has relaxed a little bit. It’s been a very successful time. I’m glad he brought me. He’s a very kind man.” 

“Are we talking about the same person?” Mycroft asked, sarcastically. He slipped a sliver of salmon to Toby.

Molly nodded, her eyes bright. “I think you’re very well acquainted with kind Sherlock,” she said. “You just like to pretend something different. There’s nothing wrong with healthy sentiment, you know. You should try it sometime,” she smiled knowingly. “You might even grow to like it.” 

“Hmm,” Mycroft said, unconvinced. For the remainder of the meal, they regaled him with the story of the missing chalice and the antics of the villagers.

Afterwards, Sherlock did the washing up whilst Mycroft poked around, reading the bookshelves, peering out the window, rifling through the snail shells, Toby following behind him, hoping for more scraps. Over the dishes, Molly tried to get Sherlock to calm down. “Give him space to breathe,” she whispered, leaning into him. “You want him to help you, so don’t attack.” He nodded. “Flies, remember?”

“Right,” he said, drying his hands. “I remember. All right, all done. So, brother, are you ready to brave the out-of-doors? Up for a little…legwork?” He grabbed the collecting bag.

“Take your jackets. The air off the sea can be chilly, and the wind is up today,” Molly ordered.

The boys wandered down the slope towards the sea. They spent an hour climbing the rocks, looking for fossils and talking about nothing in particular. Eventually, their bag full of finds, they began to stroll up the beach. 

“Molly looks well,” Mycroft noted. “You’ve been taking good care of her.”

“She’s come a long way,” Sherlock agreed. “I’m very pleased with her progress.”

“Are you still...not in love with her?” Mycroft asked in his irritatingly glib manner.

“Oh,” Sherlock responded mildly, refusing to rise to the bait. “We’re together now.” He sounded so casual about it that Mycroft stopped, stunned.

“Really? You found a female goldfish?”

“Molly’s not a goldfish,” Sherlock said with a bit of heat. “She’s a wonderful woman and I’m lucky to have her. I won’t hear a word against her.”

Mycroft leaned his back against a ledge, facing the sea. “Yes, of course,” he said, quietly. “My apologies. Congratulations, little brother. I hope you’ll be very happy. Sincerely.”

“I need to ask you something,” Sherlock began, leaning on the ledge next to his brother. “Do you…” he hesitated. “Do you know what Eurus did to me when we were little? When I met her she told me she loved it when I laughed, that she used to make me laugh all night. Only I wasn’t laughing, I was screaming. I thought she meant I was upset over Redbeard…I mean Victor, but there was something else, wasn’t there? What did she mean?”

“I thought this might come up,” Mycroft said, with a sigh. “Why do you want to know? Isn’t it best to let the past stay buried?”

“I’ve been…having some…issues over the last few months,” Sherlock explained. “Since our first trip to Sherrinford. I thought it was because I was so worried about Molly. That might have been part of it, I suppose, or at least a trigger to the full blown thing. But it’s continued, even though she and I are…together now. I have crushing anxiety, sharp pains in my arms, hives, sometimes I…can’t breathe. Do you know why I might be experiencing these things?” He looked at his brother. “What did Eurus do to me?”

Mycroft fixed his stare at his feet, took a deep breath and then gazed out at the endless waves crashing on the shore. The sky was a piercing blue and large, puffy clouds sailed silently overhead. It was very beautiful, he thought abstractly. He shook his head with regret. “I had hoped this would stay forgotten. If you couldn’t remember, then how could it harm you?”

“Apparently, that theory’s not…true,” Sherlock responded. “The harm is there because it happened. It…comes out in other ways. But I’m not a child anymore, Mycroft. I want to know.”

Mycroft was clearly uncomfortable. He shifted his feet and looked down. “No one knew how long it had been going on,” he said, quietly. “Your bedrooms were in the other part of the house. Nanny…didn’t understand. She was of the old school. You let a child cry. If you picked them up they’d become used to coddling and turn out weak.” He turned to Sherlock. “She thought the marks were…self inflicted. My god, Sherlock, if I’d known…” he ducked his head, looking sad, and rubbed his brow, his hands shaking.

“I’m not angry, Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “Well, maybe I am, a little,” he admitted. “But not at you. You were only twelve. How could you have known what to do? I meant it when I said you did the best you could.”

“I appreciate that, little brother,” Mycroft said. “But I can never forgive myself. I should have…seen.”

“I can’t give you…absolution from your guilt. Only you can do that. But tell me what happened. Please, Mycroft. I need to know.”

“She...used to…tie you up and stick you with pins,” Mycroft blurted out. “If you made too much noise she’d cover your face with a…with a…”

“Pillow,” Sherlock finished, looking grim. It made sense now.

“I let you down, brother mine,” Mycroft admitted. “It’s my fault. I should have…should have known…” his voice trailed off and he took a deep breath. “Mummy discovered it one day when Nanny had the day off. She had to change your shirt because you’d gotten it muddy, playing pirates with Victor down by the pond. You really loved to play in the mud. It was only later that you became…more fastidious.” 

He drifted in thought, a pale, pained grimace on his face. He sighed. “There were marks, pin pricks, all over your arms and chest, some of them bloody,” he continued. “She could have smothered you,” Mycroft said in a whisper. “She could have killed you. We sent her away, and you forgot. We thought it for the best, that you couldn’t remember. When you were 17 and started shooting hard drugs it…broke my heart. I think in some way you were trying to remember her, using pain to stimulate your memory, through the unwanted but familiar prick of a needle on your skin. The mind creates terrible realities,” he said, shaking his head.

Sherlock slumped, stunned. Suddenly, it all came together in his mind. His need to use, his distrust of women, his denial of his emotions, his deletion of his own sister. _You do remember her, in a way_ , Mycroft had told him. _Every choice you ever made; every path you’ve ever taken – the man you are today ... is your memory of Eurus_. He wiped his eyes and gazed at the unchanging sea. “Thank you for telling me,” he said. 

“I…I wish…” Mycroft began. He couldn’t finish.

“I know,” Sherlock said. “Me, too.”

Slowly, Mycroft put his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. After a little pause, Sherlock put his arm around his brother. They stood like that, in silence, supporting each other, looking at the water.

Molly smiled, watching them from the picture window in the cottage, knowing he would tell her later what had happened. 

*****


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

—Four nights later—

Molly wandered through darkened hallways, each one leading to another. She was in a frightening labyrinth and couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been lost in these cold halls. She couldn’t find her way out. Her phone was ringing somewhere. She needed to find it. It was important because something was going to happen. She struggled through the bitter darkness. Everything was askew, thick and immovable. She managed another step, and then another. She turned a corner. Her phone was laying on the floor, and she reached for it. A sense of relief washed over her. She picked up the phone and…remembered. 

_I don’t love you. It was for a case_. 

She woke up in a cold sweat. Sitting up, she looked at Sherlock sleeping beside her. Her love. Her lover. She wanted to scream. She clapped both hands over her mouth, stifling an enormous sob, her body shaking with grief and shock.

Her movements woke Sherlock up. He sat up and tried to put his arm around her.

She stiffened. “Don’t touch me, Sherlock,” she commanded.

“What’s the matter, Molly?” he asked, a feeling of dread crawling through him.

“Oh, Sherlock!” she cried. “I...love you. It hurts how much I love you. I’ve tried not to, but I can’t stop. I know you don’t love me. But please, right now, kiss me like you mean it. Let me pretend. Make me believe that you love me, too. Take me back to yesterday.” She turned to him, trembling, her dark eyes filled with pain and longing, her tears sparkling in the moonlight, threatening to spill over and flood him with regret.

His stomach flipped over. Her desperation was so exquisite he could barely breathe. “Oh, Molly,” he whispered, reaching for her, lowering his lips to hers. “Molly…” he kissed her, deeply, urgently, and she strained against him, moaning, gasping into his mouth as his tongue mingled with hers, pressing her body along his. He could sense a profound sadness within her. He pulled away and drew a shaking breath, overwhelmed by her need, her beauty, her hunger for him that tore at his heart. “What...makes you think I don’t love you?” he managed.

“I remember,” she said with a sob, her breath hitching. “I remember everything. The phone call, the text.” She paused, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “The fact that you don’t love me.”

“Oh, god,” he muttered, closing his eyes, crushed by his massive stupidity. “No. Oh, Molly.”

“I know I’m just one of your…goldfish. It was for a case. I understand. Yes, I amuse you, you’re fond of me. But you don’t love me. I don’t care anymore, Sherlock. Please make love to me. Wipe my mind of thought. Fuck me into forgetting you don’t love me.” She pulled off her nightgown, revealing her delicate, tender nakedness to him. Lying down, she held out her arms to him, biting her lip as a tear slid down her cheek.

He collapsed under her sweet, anguished vulnerability. “Oh, god,” he moaned. “I don’t deserve you.” He dropped his head to her chest, nuzzling the soft valley between her breasts, moving his lips gently, reverently across her skin, taking her nipple in his mouth, rolling it against his tongue, feeling her quiver in response to his touch. He wanted to lose himself in her captivating scent, in the smooth heat of her skin, in the sad passion blooming in her eyes, and in her slick, luscious depths.

She arched into him, wanting to feel him inside her, spreading her thighs apart to settle his hips between her legs, his hardening erection straining against her warm, ready centre. She ran her hands down his back, under the waistband of his pajamas, reveling in the feel of his skin, and pushed them down far enough so he could scramble out of them. He pulled off his t-shirt and laid down on top of her, breast to breast, their bellies touching, her legs wrapped around his hips. He bent his head and kissed her slowly, gently at first, then with increasing urgency. She wound her arms around his neck, holding him as closely as she could, savouring this moment, loving the feel of his weight on her, pressing her into the bed, pressing the heartache out of her.

His jaw worked as he kissed her, his tongue exploring her mouth, running across her delicious lips, salty from her tears. She felt so perfect in his arms he could have spent a lifetime kissing her. She moaned deeply, opening her body and heart to him, allowing him to touch her most intimate places. 

He’d never felt so humble and grateful in the presence of a woman before. He wanted to bow down in adoration before her. He hesitated, recognizing the sacredness of this moment, wanting to show his respect for her, knowing he had to speak. He owed her the truth.

“Molly, wait,” he said, pulling up, supporting himself on his forearms so he could look her in the eye. “Oh, god, I’ve been such a fool. I...do love you. That text was a lie. I’ve cared for you for so long, but I was worried you might be hurt by my enemies or even by…me, and I couldn’t live if something happened to you. I thought you’d be safer if we never got involved. When my...sister forced that phone call it was my worst nightmare coming true. I thought you were going to die.”

Molly’s eyes grew big, moving her hands to linger on his chest above her.

“And then you got sick, and I went crazy, fearing again you might die. It’s taken me a long time to realize that I love you. Molly, I’m no good at this, but—“

“Wait, Sherlock,” she said, putting her hand over his mouth. “Are you telling me this because I asked you to, or…” she couldn’t finish because her stomach was in knots.

 _Oh, god_ , he thought, _she doesn’t believe me_. He swallowed, suddenly nervous. Things had taken an awful turn. He didn’t know what to do or say. He took her hand from his mouth and kissed her palm. “I’d never lie to you, Molly.” He bent his head, trying to kiss her, but she turned her head away. He froze.

“You…you lie to me constantly!” she said, brokenly. “You lie to everyone! You lied just now when you said you never lie! What am I supposed to believe?” The tiny, hopeful flame inside of her flickered and died.

Sherlock stuttered, confused. “I…I thought you wanted…”

Molly’s face twisted and she started to cry, gulping sobs that were wrung from deep inside. “I can’t…I can’t…” she moaned, twisting away from him and covering her face with her hands. “I can’t do this with you anymore. It hurts too much. Get out, Sherlock. Please, get out of my bed.”

Sherlock was stricken. “Molly, please,” he begged. “I…I…let me explain.”

“No,” she said, her voice breaking. “I…can’t. I’m done. Get out!” She pushed at him with her legs.

He backed off the bed, flustered and unsure, turned, and rushed out of her room, escaping to the cold safety of his own bedroom. Through the closed door he could hear Molly sobbing her heart out. He wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

When he emerged the next morning after spending a sleepless night packed with self-loathing and reproach, Molly was nowhere to be found. Panicking, calling her name, he finally spotted her, sitting on the edge of the bluff, staring dully out to sea. He grabbed her jacket, walked out to her, and draped it around her shoulders. Hesitantly, he sat down beside her. She hadn’t gotten any sleep either. He read that in the dried tears on her face and the misery in her eyes.

“I want to go back to London,” she said flatly. “If you don’t want to drive me, then will you take me to the train station?”

“I’ll drive you,” he responded, defeat ringing in his voice. “Molly, I—“

“I don’t need to hear it, Sherlock. It’s not your fault, anyway. It’s mine. I’m the one who held out hope when I shouldn’t have.” She looked at him then, her eyes full of sorrow, pulling her jacket closer. “I’m so grateful to you for bringing me here, for helping me, for all you’ve ever done for me. You’re a good man. But, despite what you think and what you said, you don’t love me. Not really. If you did you wouldn’t have lied to me.”

“I was trying to protect you! Please, Molly, not like this. This seems so…wrong.”

“Maybe you just need me to like you,” she mused. “Maybe it flatters you to have me love you. But that’s not good enough for me.” She shook her head. “Not anymore. If two people love each other, they share, they work things out together. There’s trust. One doesn’t assume he knows everything and leave his…partner in the dark.”

“You have no idea the dangers I hunt every night,” he said. “No woman would want that in her life.” He was deadly serious.

“You never came to me, Sherlock, asked me what I wanted, if I would be okay with the risks. I would have been, you know, within reason. Some of your…choices I admit I would’ve had a hard time with. But you never gave me an option. You decided for me, leaving me to wait, not knowing how you felt. I’ve been too passive. I can’t…do this anymore. I thought I could, but I can’t. My arm is much better. I’m going to get well and focus on my work.”

“I thought you couldn’t stop loving me if you tried,” he scowled, bitterly. 

“I lied,” she said, getting up and going into the cottage to pack. 

Sherlock sat there, watching the waves crashing against the shore, frustrated and angry. The words of old Elizabetha echoed in his mind. _Some women will not wait anymore. They pack their pain away, like men, and live in their deeds. No more for the heart. Now I ask you, where in this world is there room for grace?_

*****


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sherlock jumped up and stormed into the cottage, going directly to Molly’s bedroom, where she was sniffling and fuming, trying to fold her clothes into her suitcase awkwardly and making a mess of it. He sat on the bed and stared at her. Unfazed, she continued to pack.

“You’re doing that wrong,” he said. 

She growled, wadded up a shirt and threw it into the suitcase, glaring at him. “Fuck off, Sherlock.”

“No. Make me.”

“What, are we in primary school?” she snapped.

“I don’t know. You tell me. I’m not the one running away because the playground’s too rough.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re the one breaking our agreement. Not me. You.”

“What agreement?”

“Mutual healing. Remember? You and I promised we’d stick by each other. Help each other. But you’re chickening out because I’ve made a couple of small, tiny, really tiny…errors and now you’re mad because I’m an arsehole?”

Molly sniffed and blinked. “Well, you are an arsehole.” She angrily wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

“I never said I wasn’t. C’mon, Molly, don’t be an idiot. Let’s talk about this.”

She sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, crossing her arms. “I don’t know how coming in here and insulting me is going to make me more…amenable to listening to you.”

“Seems to be working.”

Molly stood up. “I need a glass of wine.” 

“It’s ten am!”

“See what you’ve driven me to?” she fired back, going out to the kitchen and pouring herself a glass, then going into the sitting room. Sherlock followed her. She sat on the sofa, took a slug of her wine, and looked at him blankly. “Well?”

“Well, what?” He sat next to her.

“Speak!” she commanded.

“Umm…, I don’t know how to start...” She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Okay! Molly, I...love you. I am...in love with you. I mean it. I mean it with every goddamn atom of my being. I lied to you, to everyone about it. I lied to myself. I didn’t want it to be true, I thought love was a…distraction. A weakness. A chemical defect.”

“You didn’t trust me,” she said, flatly.

“I’ve trusted you with my life!”

“But not your heart, Sherlock. You never trusted me with that.” She looked sad.

“I don’t even trust my own mother with that,” Sherlock muttered, sighing and looking contrite. “I’m…not a good man, Molly. I’m selfish and headstrong. I think I know everything and I chase danger. I shy away from…tender admissions of regard. I have no idea how to do…this. But so help me god, I’d be ripped apart if anything ever happened to you. I don’t deserve you and I don’t know why you love me.”

“Loved you. Past tense.”

“So you’re going to take seven years of devotion and throw it all away because I sent an ill-advised…no, stupid, text?” he said, frustrated. He heaved a sigh and threw up his hands. “It was stupid, wasn’t it? Even I see that now.” The desperation in his voice was apparent.

Molly squirmed uncomfortably. “…maybe.” She took another swig of wine. 

Sherlock noticed her hesitation and pushed his advantage. “Molly, you are the most beautiful, kind, infuriating person I know. You run hot and cold, you’ve always supported me, helped me, trusted me. You see me when no one else can. You have no compulsion about walloping me when I’ve messed up, and I never know when you’re going to explode. Frankly, that terrifies me.”

“How is this list of my…talents persuading me to forgive you?” She arched an eyebrow before shaking her head. She took a deep, settling breath. “Sherlock, I was functionally dead for two weeks! It’s changed me.”

“I’ve been dead, too, Molly.”

“This isn’t a contest about who’s been dead more.”

“No.” Sherlock winced. “That’s…not what I meant. I meant, I understand that…pressure. The feeling of time slipping past, of missing out. Why do you think I wanted to bring you out here? To, admittedly, the middle of nowhere. God knows what I was thinking. But, I wanted us to live together, be together, to see what it might be like.”

“I’ve been wondering what I’m doing being your…satellite, your...follower, your…goldfish.” Sherlock opened his mouth for a rebuttal but she wasn’t done speaking. “Is it a good idea? I don’t know anymore. I don’t have the time I…want. I can’t wait anymore for you to decide what you want. One day yes, the next day no. If you’re for me, you need to decide.”

“I have decided. You’re not a goldfish or satellite, Molly. You’re…the centre of my world. Well, one of two centres of my world. Well, at least two.”

“Better quit whilst you’re ahead,” she muttered.

“I don’t want to be without you, Molly. I want to make you happy, but I’m shit at it. I fuck things up. I…get jealous. I can’t promise I’ll be any good at this, because, as you know, I’m an arsehole and I’m overprotective about you. But I’m willing to try.”

Molly didn’t respond. A tear slipped down her cheek. She looked at him and smiled, sadly. “I never used to have regrets,” she said, wistfully.

“Don’t cry, please, Molly.” He brushed away her tear and put his arm around her. “I love you. Can’t you dial the clock back 24 hours and love me, too?”

“I’m trying, Sherlock. Really, I am.”

“I hate seeing you sad and knowing I’m the one who made you unhappy.”

“I…I can’t help it.” She turned into him, tucked her legs underneath her, put a hand on his chest and her head on his shoulder. “I thought I’d be overjoyed if this ever happened. It’s all I’ve dreamed of for seven years, but…I wasn’t expecting this. I’m not upset anymore. I’m…I don’t know what I am. Bittersweet, maybe. Maybe because it’s taken you and I this long to be ready for each other. We’ve wasted time, Sherlock.”

“I know we have,” he said, softly. “It’s my fault. I’m sorry, Molly.”

“In a way, this is like a cosmic anti-Romeo-and-Juliet kind of thing,” she observed.

“I only hope we’re the opposite of Romeo and Juliet. I’m not killing myself in three days and neither are you. I won’t allow it.”

“Or maybe it’s taken so long because you’re stupid.”

“Possibly,” he chuckled.

“Romeo was an idiot,” she added, rubbing it in.

“Definitely me, then. But, hey, Juliet was a bit dim, too.”

“I am not dim!” she said. 

“No,” he quickly agreed. “Not at all.”

She sighed dramatically. “But, I still can’t help feeling sad about…how many great fucks I missed.” She grinned, giggling.

“Well,” he said, “ _some_ people seem to be insatiable in that regard.”

“Sherlock! Bastard!” she admonished him, smacking his arm. “You’re just jealous.”

“Of Meat Dagger?” he scoffed. “Not likely.”

“You do know I said that ‘lots of sex’ thing just to wind you up, Sherlock.” He huffed. “It worked, didn’t it?” she laughed, tucking her arm through his. “I’m not as much of a sex hound as you think. I just like it, that’s all.” There was a small pause, past mistakes creeping into both their thoughts. “Tom was a nice man,” Molly mused. “But he wasn’t…”

“Me?”

“You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”

Sherlock grinned. “Every chance I get. I tend to gloat when I win. Say, Molly…”

“Hmm?”

“Did you like Harry McGregor?”

Molly snorted. “You are stupid, Sherlock. I thought it was obvious. I was trying to prod you into…moving off dead centre. I couldn’t care less about him. Talk about dim.” She chuckled. “But the boat ride was very nice.”

“How about Greg Lestrade?” 

“Ooo, now there’s a gorgeous hunk of man,” Molly purred. “Kind, decent, handsome, silver fox. Wow. There was a time I would have gone for him.” Sherlock looked hurt. She laughed and hugged his arm. “Just in an non-infatuated kind of way now, of course. Objectively, though, he’s very good-looking. He’s lovely, but he’s not my type. I tend to fall for tall, dark, super-smart, semi-stupid, arrogant detectives. It’s a good thing there’s not too many of those around.”

“Good,” Sherlock said. “I tend to pout when I lose. So, hmm,” he rumbled, thinking. “Okay, how much do I owe you? Um, one fuck per week for seven years equals…364.”

“Four fucks a month?”

“Too many?”

“Not enough! Better quadruple it! At least! And add some for leap years.”

Sherlock groaned. “I’m going to be dead before the week is out.”

“Being dead’s not bad.”

“Yes,” he said, gently. “But please don’t make a habit of it, Molly.”

“Okay,” she promised. “You neither.”

Sherlock leaned over and kissed her.

 

*****

Epilogue 

They returned to London six weeks later, tanned, rested, healthy, and utterly in love. Molly was nearly fully recovered and Sherlock’s panic attacks had decreased significantly. They visited John and Rosie right away. 

“You both look great,” John commented, passing Rosie over to Molly, who accepted her happily and began hugging and cooing to the golden-haired child. “Glass of vino?”

“Yes, thanks, John,” Sherlock said. “I’ve missed you. I’m raring for trouble and I hope you are, too. You’ve been well?”

“Right as rain,” their friend answered, going to open a bottle of wine. “By the way, Molly, nice ring.” He smiled, pointing to the glittering band encircling the fourth finger of her left hand. “When’s the wedding?”

“Soon,” Molly answered, looking at Sherlock, her eyes shining. “We don’t want to wait.”

**Author's Note:**

> Notes
> 
> 1\. Christina Georgina Rossetti (5 December 1830 – 29 December 1894) was an English poet who wrote a variety of romantic, devotional, and children's poems. (From Wikipedia)
> 
> 2\. Hordle is a real village of about 5,000 people, located northeast of Bournemouth in the south of England. The site has been occupied for over a thousand years, and was a salt making center long ago. The village moved a few miles north to its current location around 1830 when they demolished the old church on the cliffs (partially due to erosion) and rebuilt it farther inland. There is no village centre or High Street, the pub is named The Three Bells, and I have made up everything and everyone else, including the mystery.
> 
> 3\. Bee Facts: https://www.benefits-of-honey.com/honey-bee-facts.html
> 
> 4\. The passage Molly reads from “Dark Desires,” is from the great Margaret Mitchell’s 1936 epic, “Gone with the Wind.” I embellished it to make it more smutty. 
> 
> 5\. The romance novel “Dark Desires,” doesn’t exist. (I mean, it probably does, with that title, but I created the title for this story.)


End file.
